The Garage Sale China Cat with Broken Pieces
A Journey of Grief and Healing
“Name one specific memory you have of your father,” the trauma-informed counselor said.
I thought for a moment.
“Well, there was this china cat I found at a garage sale…” I began.
Growing up before Facebook Marketplace, garage sales were a big deal. We went to them and had them. Having a garage sale meant that we spent one night driving around putting signs up in the neighborhood. Sometimes our parents let us decorate the signs. Then, they would painstakingly write a price on a sticker for each item and borrow tables to set out from our aunt.
When morning came, I would wake up to a party. My grandparents would bring donuts and coffee. There would be pizza. And a bunch of people would come through and ask if the hand mixer worked, if we had antiques, and if the price was flexible.
My mom hated sales, so a lot of times she would end up giving things away — if it was a nice person. At most garage sales my parents made just enough money to cover the pizza and drinks. My dad laughed about the people who slowed down to look at our items just to speed away.
I loved having and going to garage sales. I guess I inherited the “it’s a good deal” gene from the grandparents that…
