the poetry of my grandfather’s auction
My family is auctioning off my grandparent’s things today. They’re never going back to 607 Rosemont. I’m probably never going back to 607 Rosemont. Even if I do, it will never, ever be the same. My grandpa doesn’t garden anymore, and my grandmother doesn’t make us ham sandwiches and soup for lunch every day between tennis lessons and swimming lessons. Even the trees are different – a storm a couple years ago took down the giant magnolia.
My Aunt Barbara told my mom that anything my sister and I wanted was ours. My sister got my grandfather’s old 35 mm camera, and I’m getting their record player. My dad is probably getting one of grandpa’s guitars, and I asked my mom if she could find me a broach or some necklaces.
None of that seemed like the thing I wanted to hold onto, though, to remember how things used to be. I can’t ask for the tennis balls I used to throw against the wall near the basement, but I had to stop myself from asking for the pink cup that my grandma used to serve me milk in when she brought me milk and cookies.
I told Stephanie to find me anything that would remind me of our childhood – anything that would connect me to grandma and grandpa.
She found an old poetry book that my grandfather gave to his mother – Brady. I was named after her.
It’s perfect.
