It cost a little over two dollars.
I bought that too.
For the next five weeks, I quietly packed my life.
I wrapped Dale’s oak dining table in blankets and thought about all the meals we had eaten at it. I packed the photographs, the wedding china, the books I had meant to read for years, and the little loon magnet from the refrigerator, which I tucked into my purse instead of a box because it made me smile.
Craig called twice.
Both calls were about his job.
Neither time did he ask what I was doing for New Year’s. Neither time did he ask how I was, or whether the house was too much for me, or whether I needed anything at all.
On December 30, the moving truck backed into my driveway at eight sharp, exactly as promised, its brakes sighing in the cold morning air.
For nine hours, I watched twenty-five years of furniture disappear through the front door.
The sofa.
The oak dining table Dale had refinished himself, sanding it down in the garage one summer until his hands were covered in dust and he grinned at me like a boy with a new toy.
The beds.
The televisions.
The rugs.
The lamps.