Do I hear five dollars? Five dollars?

Author’s Note: It’s been a while since I posted any of my personal writing that goes beyond thought spewing or a chronicle of life’s happenings, so I took time today to work on a poem to get it ready enough to be posted on my blog. This is the second draft of a poem I wrote after my grandma’s auction last month. It’s not perfect yet; it needs at least one more round of revision. I didn’t think her auction would be difficult, but, apart from the funeral, this day turned out to be the hardest part of saying good-bye to my grandma.

Do I hear five dollars? Five dollars?

Unfamiliar with the narrative behind each item

the auctioneer held out each thing or box up for grabs

and simply spit out descriptions and dollar amounts to start the bidding

Lining one room in the exhibit hall at Ag Park in Columbus were

rows of banquet tables, 35 total tables separated into sections--

knick-knacks, kitchen items, antiques, toys, electronics, books, glassware

each table piled high with Corningware, brass figurines, china,

stuffed animals, pots and pans, VHS movies, toys, baskets, afghans, and other trinkets

One smaller room connected to the larger exhibit hall contained furniture

Appliances and antique chests and chairs and benches and upright radios

stood like soldiers around the tables

and a 1961 Oldsmobile Dynamic 88 was parked in front of it all

gleaming white, hood propped open for passersby to examine

an American flag stuck proudly in its antenna hole

and the doors open displaying the car’s maroon leather interior: flawless

Strangers and a few distant relatives and family friends filed in and rifled through boxes

turning things over to examine and then dropping the items carelessly back in boxes

making lists of what they’d bid on

I weaved in and out of the aisles thinking of the memories attached to each item

the apple peeler---

that peeled the skin from Red Delicious apples--

a luxury our parents denied but grandma gave into

the multi-colored afghans---

my cousins and I layered on the living room floor,

enough to make us feel like we were sleeping on a mattress

sleepovers at grandmas watching

The Sound of Music, Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead, Lion King, and others all on VHS

a cast iron skillet---

grandma used to teach Shantelle and me how to fry an egg

7 years old, pieces of shell stuck in the yolk,

the eggs scrunched into an accordion

as we made our first attempt at flipping an egg.

Corningware--

that held orange jello salad, deviled eggs, tortilla roll-ups,

cranberry jelly in the shape of a can, and instant mashed potatoes at every Thanksgiving.

A clear coffee mug--

the only mug I ever saw grandma drink from,

coffee, hot water, or a little boxed wine.

I moved to sit on the side with my kids resting next to me,

coloring quietly in their notebooks unaware of the significance of this day

and I watched the items disappear from the tables and into the hands of strangers

the remnant of my grandmother fading

and suddenly I found myself desperate and frantic to hold something of grandma’s

My legs wobbly, my hands shaking, I hurried to the row of kitchen items

Where’s grandma’s clear coffee mugs? I asked a cousin, my voice breaking

She reached into a nearby box and withdrew the only clear coffee mug left

Do I hear five dollars? Five dollars?

Unfamiliar with the narrative behind each item

the auctioneer held out each thing or box up for grabs

and simply spit out descriptions and dollar amounts to start the bidding

and strangers and a few familiar faces held up numbered slips of papers

and carried away the apple peeler, afghans, skillets, and Corningware

back to their homes where the items would take on new narratives

but the clear coffee mug rested safely in my bag

After the auction ended, and the stuff in new homes,

I slowly sipped my coffee from the clear coffee mug

watching my kids play the night away

Mom, that’s a weird mug, my son quipped as he pumped his legs on the swing

My voice steady, I replied It’s from Great Grandma Kush

and satisfied with that answer, he went back to his swing

another sun setting

another day gone.