The sailboat that I gave to my husband for a wedding gift. He is passing it on now to our granddaughters who sail.
It makes sense. They will use it. He no longer does.
The passage of time.
I no longer squat so getting into a kayak is challenging.
The passage of time.
The jazzy sportscar I bought myself when I went through my divorce. Old now. No modern bells and whistles to save me from a fireball crash. It sits in the garage.
The backgammon set we used after dinner in a winter of blizzards six years ago. The orange and pink pants I bought after completing two months of the grapefruit diet. The book you gave me and I promised to read. The drawing pad I take on vacations but don’t draw.
Things of the past. Of a past time. That are still with me.
I haven’t given them away because I can’t admit that those times have gone.
Skis that would transport me to a fluid, athletic version of myself, hang in my garage.
Paintings lean on the basement wall that were of a different wall and house.
Antique furniture that quietly whispers an old story. Sits. No one listens now.
What will the articles of the future be? The things I will use without thought now. And then, unforeseen, I will stop.
Repeating the ongoing need to move on. Discard.
A harbinger of a change I don’t want to face.
