Rummage Sale

You wrote your last
will and testament on
binder paper with a pen that leaked.
Frugal to the end,
you wouldn't hire a lawyer,
"Those bastards'll suck you dry."

Your final instructions,
in words that forbade
argument said: To my children,
divide, in three equal portions,
stocks, bonds, and monies-
Then have a rummage sale,
and split the take.

We wanted to cart away
the salt and pepper shakers
shaped like hawaiian dancers
the lamp with plastic dangles
that jangled, the tired brown couch
with lace runners, and the drawer
full of gizmos that were guaranteed
to perform as described or
double your money back.

We wanted to call the junk man
and sell everything for fifty bucks
and be done with it.
We wanted to say
just take it away
so we don't have to remember
how lonely you were.
But we couldn't argue
with final wishes.

We had the damn rummage sale
between bouts of weeping.
We sold the pieces
or fifty cents or a dollar
and traded your favourite chair
for the suddenly
memory of you.

Annette LeBox
Maple Ridge, B. C.

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