Inheritance

"you’ll get them when I’m dead"

The other day I went to a yard sale where there were a bunch of people I knew from social media but they didn’t know me and for a moment I felt kind of weird like a weird middle-aged nobody because that’s what I am which isn’t a big deal really but social media kind of emphasizes that feeling in a way that does nobody any kind of good. Anyhow I felt awkward and looked around at the stuff for a little bit and then I saw the shoes. They were blue. I have dreams about yard sales where I’m walking along and turn a corner and suddenly come upon a sale in somebody’s sunny front yard where there are old books and brass bowls and beautiful clothes and shoes set out in rows on the grass. I look through them and they’re the most beautiful shoes and bowls and books and clothes I’ve ever seen. Everything I want is my size and costs a dollar and I have ten. These shoes were from that dream, but real. I picked them up and asked how much and they were cheap so I bought them.

My friend Ken died when I was nineteen. I’d known him since I was three. He left me a few things. A red-striped button-down shirt, an old edition of Clarissa—The History of a Young Lady, a pile of 78’s, and five pairs of ripped Levi’s that he knew I coveted—you’ll get them when I’m dead, he had laughed, and I did.

When I was younger he sent me cards once a week while I was at music camp. They were lively and funny with obscene little drawings. I wouldn’t—or couldn’t—show them to my friends. He liked to try and shock me. I do the same thing to my kid now, and watch his eyes widen, scandalized, before he collapses in laughter. “Dada, Dada! You won’t believe what Mama just said!”

And that’s it.

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