My
most private, precious memories were laid out for people to finger, judge,
evaluate for, discard, take-away. The string of black pearls that my father had
brought from his voyage to China. The only other gift he had ever given me
besides my much thumbed copy of ‘Alice in wonderland’. I tightened my grip on
it. At least one part of my life had deemed itself unworthy of being sold to
support this physical body.
The
flutes that my husband and I had drunk most of our champagne from; I don’t remember
now if our first one was from them; I do remember the last.
“How
much for this?” She asked, staring hard at my red wooden tulip.
‘A
moment of unadulterated happiness’ I wanted to say, as I remembered the moment
when it had walked into my life.
“5
euros” I said.
“How much for this?” She asked, fiddling with
my mother’s knitted shawl. I stared at her hands to check for food grease while
my mouth uttered “545 euros.”
She
stared at me as if I was mad and she asked the price of my Tibetan ring just to
confirm. It went on. She asked for a price. I quoted a value. I was mad. There
was a feeble voice in my head that was trying to reason with me. ‘I had signed
up for this. They were just things. I was being irrational. If I didn’t have 30
euros by the time I reached home, I wouldn’t have a home tomorrow.’ It said.
“I’ll
take the tulip.” She said as she reached her hand out for it. I touched her
hand lightly to stop her.
“It’s
not for sale anymore.”
