Pricing my Life, Memories for Sale

As I type this, there are people inside my home putting a value on many of the material things that have made up my life.

It feels very strange to know the sale value of my things won’t reflect the emotional value. Each piece, whether furniture or a small piece of costume jewelry, is wrapped in a memory but of course a buyer won’t see those.

The little Victorian bench won’t be able to tell it’s history.

People won’t know that in 1981 Dave and I were putting every spare penny -and there weren’t many- into renovating an old Victorian house.   They won’t know how we loved to browse through antique shops and dream or how we happened upon this little bench that I fell in love with.  It was priced beyond the reach of our spare pennies but the shop owner, a sweet older man, allowed us to make payments.

Over the years the bench moved from house to house and was prominently displayed in one room or another.    When we moved to this house seventeen years ago, we stopped using the bench in our living space and stored it in the basement.

Last week, I uncovered my little bench and there in the pattern of the woodgrain was the memory of that young couple, struggling to make ends meet, raise their family and rehab an old money pit.

The memory is priceless, but unfortunately, the bench is not. It will be sold along with so many other things that hold a part of me.

I’d love to think there will be another young couple, building their lives and their dreams, who fall in love with the bench and someday see their own memories in the woodgrain.

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Because that thought is comforting, I’m going to choose to believe it about everything I’m letting go.

I’m so grateful for the years of love and memories, for the adventures we’ve had and the life we’ve built.   Now, we’re on to new adventures with new memories to make.  With room in my head and heart for both the past and the future, I’ll take part of the little Victorian bench with me.

There’s no price tag on that.






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