It was only a garage sale, for Pete’s sake. So, what are the tears about?

I sit at home this morning with wet eyes. I’m trying to clean up the usual accumulation on my desk, but instead I’m crying. Why? Because I’m sifting through the photos from last weekend on my phone.  My husband and I were at my daughter’s home, out-of-state, for her garage sale.

Get it? Her garage sale. Not mine. Not mine to cry over, at least.


But here’s the thing. I helped set up her sale and then hung out with her for two warm and sunny days on lawn chairs, sipping diet pop, waiting for the traffic. Prime bonding time. And as I sat scanning the piles of toddler clothes for sale, the swift passage of time became a sudden reality. Had it really been forty years since my own garage sales with her toddler clothes?


I’ve been having this aging thing lately. You know the kind where you see your future years as fewer than your past. Could be I live another twenty-four years and die at ninety-five like my mother, or I could be listed any day now on the obituary pages like many others in their seventies.

One of my mottos as I age is to find joy in every day. My joy today is in memories of helping my daughter host her garage sale, even though those memories are graced with a few tears.