Mercy
“She stood with her hands on her hips, stoically accepting the absence of old Boston Celtics coasters and the tangle of fishing poles, the old dartboard from a Scots pub, the toolbox and downhill skis, the silky patterned ties wh ich sat in the base of one box like a writhing mass of snakes. Without these things, one tended to notice the bright eyelet curtains, the vase filled wi th yawning crocuses, a needlepoint pillow. True, it looked more like a scene from a Martha Stewart magazine than a ho...me, but that was to be expected. She packed away the matching mugs hand-lettered with their names, and the v ideo camera they'd bought for their last anniversary, and a framed sampler some relative had stitched to commemorate their wedding. She painstakingly dismantled the frame of the big brass bed, lugging the pieces into the livi ng room until all that remained was a thick and silent mattress. She thanked God, and in advance, the groundhog, for the unseasonably warm day. When it hit 50 degrees in the shallows of January, people came out of their houses, and the more people to venture outside, the more people the re would be for the sale.MoreLess
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