My weekend

I sit on the floor, large boxes circling. Faded t-shirts and Christmas tablecloths nudge over the sides. I lift one, fold, tuck it back in. My son will ride in the van with me to the Goodwill donation center. A cheerful, muscular guy with one silver earring will ask if I'd like a receipt.

I recline in the chair, feet up, recent memories lilting. A warm, dark forest and still-watered pool. Footfalls as four of us found rhythms on an earnest climb. Friendships strengthened and acquaintances sparked new yesterday.

I ride in the Fox truck, garage sale signs directing. My husband's fetish, my enjoyment at his side. A book is found. A dog story. I pay for it with coins taken in at our last week's sale.

I perch on my office chair, blogger missives opening. Tangible in my head, the workings out of lives I can connect with, slightly. Tiny bits are shared. Imagination orders them, hikes with them, learns their fetishes. Wishes them real.