A blue glass top box. Handmade. Holding a variety of blue glass beads. Left behind in a drawer next to a stack of letters and a key.
A small black box with a number 63142, missing 5.
The pills are gone.
Do you think a hundred years from now people will collect Bayer aspirin boxes?
A pair of large menus without an ounce of flavorful descriptions written on them. Either the party didn't take place, or food wasn't necessary.
I love when I find menus that say for example: Chateau Margaux Wine 1855 or some far off year.
A pair of antique lock covers. One has been used, note the keyhole, the other is waiting for its turn.
What secret was held inside the drawer? And why was the lock cover removed?
These are the questions that present themselves to me while I am at the brocante.
The thread lets us know the color of her dress.
Most likely springtime.
She seems happy with herself.
A hint of a smile.
A clip holds her curly hair in place.
A collection of postcards. Only three. But I bought over two thousand. The old man was going out of business. Retirement. I looked at ten or twenty of his postcards in his neatly stacked boxes. I could tell the collection was to my liking.
He shared his love for old postcards.
I listened, and thought to myself it has taken him years to collect all these, and now they are going to be mine in less than five minutes.
Over one hundred years old gatherd in five minutes. Odd.
Snippets of emotions, greetings, how are you...
Her dream was to be a flapper.
But her diploma in hand spoke otherwise.
Surely she danced the night away.
The little beads neatly kept all these years tell me so.
What stories will our tiny trinkets, junk in our drawers, leftover mementos stuffed in a shoebox tell about us?
I hope they say, "Happy ever after."