In our basement, there are bins of miscellaneous items deemed garage sale. The winter months passed softly with the promise of setting up in our front yard with lemonade and lawn chairs. We had big plans for garage sale season. But now, with spring and summer and fall passing quicker and lockdown gripping harder, my heart weeps for the trinkets we will never find and our trinkets which will never be found. I open the window and shout out, funnel my voice through cupped hands, clear my throat like my neighbors will pay attention, sit up straight in their living rooms and listen:
This Monday! starting when the sun spreads across the tops of trees: run your finger along the spine of a book you've never read, place your hand in the middle of a yellow glazed plate, hold against your body a dress you can't believe you haven't owned before, slide your foot into the perfect sized shoe, find an album you've been waiting for and can already hear rippling across the wood floors of your small apartment, as you wear a new broach you found sitting on a fold out table, where you share a glass of lemonade with us while we talk about the way the lake laps at our doorsteps, something steady, something certain.
I keep the window open, just a little longer than I should, in hopes I hear a stir, a screen door propped wide. But I don't, so I shut the window, and think about revising the ad for next week.
Olivia Kingery grows plants and words in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. She is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University, where she reads for Passages North. When not writing, she is in the woods with her Chihuahua and Great Pyrenees. You can find her work at oliviakingery.com