‘Ok,’ I thought to myself, ‘now I definitely can’t sell it.”
I packed a small walnut coffee table neatly into the truck bed with blankets, strapped it down with bungee cords and netting, and gently pulled out of the driveway, smiling and waving goodbye to a stranger. This wasn’t the first time I had been unexpectedly burdened with the responsibility to care for a table. It also wasn’t the first time someone casually spoke about being in the middle of emotional turmoil, having finally arrived at the decision to part with these last few physical remnants of their mother, grandmother, or spouse. Sometimes the death was recent; more often, it had taken months or even years to arrive at the decision to sell something, let alone put a price tag on it. Occasionally the release seemed cathartic for them, a way of pushing past the painful fog and finally letting go. These people spoke deliberately, their tone had a hint of optimism. They had made their peace, it was time to say goodbye. Others seemed to study me carrying a piece down the driveway as though I was instead holding the newly orphaned family dog, anxious and immediately regretful.
I don’t usually ask much about an item when I go pick it up. But nine times out of ten, they will tell me anyway.
“Yeah, I just got around to selling some of the stuff from my mother in law’s house, you know she lived with us for a while when her health got bad. We had all this in storage for years. She loved this sewing machine so much; she would tell me all the time about how they don’t make clothes the way they used to anymore, everything just falls apart. She would get so frustrated when I would tell her I was taking something to the tailor, she’d huff about how before she got arthritis she could have done that all for me and for less than they charge now, and it would have been better made too.” They always smile at this little memory, laugh a little, and then frown.
Most people aren't in sales, but this transaction hinges on their ability to sell me on this piece of furniture. Being unfamiliar with the bells and whistles of a thing they didn't buy themselves, almost everyone reverts to explaining the personal significance, why I should want something they care so much about.
So I listen.
“We just had it serviced a few months back, I think we have the receipt in here somewhere…yeah, here it is. The guy said it was in great shape for its age so you shouldn’t have any issues with it at all. She had it wired so you could use the, what’s it called, the little foot pedal instead of having to run it manually. The plug in is in the back, we can bring it inside and plug it in for you so you know it works, if you want.”
No, that’s alright. I’m sure it’ll be fine.
“So, are you going to take sewing classes or...do you know…what are you going to do with it?”
I explain that my grandmother was a seamstress, I learned as a kid, and I am tired, as her mother in law was, of paying people to do alterations for me. But any story would do in this situation.
“Ah, that’s great!" The relief is palpable. "Well, we are just so happy to see it go to a good home, it’s really such a great machine and we just don’t have anything to use it for anymore, but we couldn’t just throw it away.”
Satisfied with my intentions, I’m usually helped to my car and thanked for being on time.
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