Laid out on the pavement was a batik scarf with dangling earrings, glass candle-holders, a small wooden jewelry box, books from Heidegger to Nora Ephron, a videotape of "Risky Business." Draped on the wrought iron fence behind: a tan knit shawl, a few pairs of jeans, a green cotton dress with buttons that looked like the inside of a seashell. I'd never owned anything green, but I had to feel those buttons between my fingers, the cotton so thin it was maybe two washes away from disintegration.
"You can try it on if you want. There's a mirror over by the tree."
I looked up to find her face. I'd inspected all of her things without even saying hello.
I saw a smile that was working hard. Her skin was pale; her shoulders thin and her hair cut very short. Or was it new peach fuzz, just growing in?
I was at once embarrassed and humbled. I'd thought people who hosted stoop sales just had too many clothes or were looking to cash in on some scratched records. But there was something else happening here. This woman looked like she was getting rid of a past she didn't need or want. A dress that was too big for her. A chest of drawers that took up too much space, space she needed, maybe, to heal or grow.
"Thanks," I whispered. I wasn't planning on buying anything really, but now I needed to, to show her that I appreciated her things and would give them a safe home. I paid her 20 bucks for her green dress, her wooden jewelry box and her blue candle-holder.
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