There, on the side of the road, a sign reads

Garage Sale

duct-tape tables and boots with the heels worn through

a faded dollhouse with all its rooms for rent

soiled gardener's gloves and a blind rocking horse

and clocks that no longer recall the time.

An orange cat slinks between the piles and watches

with yellow eyes from the undisturbed gravel drive

the old woman waiting expectantly in the wicker chair

upon the warped porch shadowed by afternoon

swatting at the flies who are her company.

The ice in her glass has melted and left

tree trunk rings upon the arm as

the old radio beside her warbles on

all swaying trumpets and crooning voices

singing of lost love for waltzes of the dead.

A breeze blows in and wakes the wind chimes

and one memory left up for sale sways gently

as if dancing in the past

one unworn white wedding dress

a maiden ghost with long bell sleeves

hanged from a budding tree.

The ivory train drags

through the fresh-cut grass

and the noose is made of real pearls.

Then

as the leaves fall silent in their prayer to the sun

up the drive crunches a truck spattered with mud

and a girl in cowboy boots with a phone at her ear.

"I love you, too, honey," she greets the old woman

but her voice is tired and she hangs up the phone

too fast.

She strides across the yard alongside her shadow

and looks at the dress before her with a strange and steady stare

ignoring the thought that it seems the slightest bit

too small

Gently she takes the dress down from its lynching

the way the mother did before the cross

and cradles it like a babe as she approaches the porch.

"How much for this?"

The old woman holds the dress again

The girl's engagement ring is cold on the old woman's skin,

and she holds onto this girl's new dress with her gnarled hands

for a moment too long.

"You don't have to sell the dress"

the girl says it softly, like a magic spell,

"I'll just pay you for its story."

The old woman opens her mouth to answer

to tell this girl what love is

that it is fleeting and beautiful and precious

and that there is never really enough

never enough love or never enough time

though the old woman drowns in time now.

The girl waits for the words because she needs them

while behind them a procession of cars pass without glancing

and the song on the radio plays out without playing.

She waits and waits but the woman cannot speak

and so the girl nods, counts out the bills, and disappears again

down the dusty road to where the sun meets the pavement

and the old woman hopes she understood.

The bills flutter in the breeze on the table

soon to be forgotten there

but the dress lies still in the old woman's lap.

She will wear it in her dreams tonight.