It’s garage sale season. I load eager children into the monster van. We roll slowly through middle class neighborhoods, seeking signs and cluttered driveways. When we spy a worthy target, we stop, click doors and spill out. Excited fingers jingle and drop quarters while I deliver final instructions.
“We’re not taking home junk. Just because it’s in the free box doesn’t mean we grab it. Everyone ready?”
Determined little shoppers approach the treasure-filled yard. We nod at the smiling homeowner with one eye on bargains in a corner.
Markie bubbles when he finds something on a sawhorse table. My big-eyed boy approaches, hands behind his back.
“I want to give you this for Mother’s Day. Will you get it and I’ll pay you back?”
I peer down at a sparkly find on a chain. The necklace reads “HOT” spelled out in rhinestones. I nod and smile, suppressing a major giggle.
I remind him that I forget to wear necklaces. My sparse collection of chains sits lonely on a handmade jewelry tree. It’s literally a branch of a tree that my son T.J. mounted on an unfinished wood base.
If I had to choose, I’d pick the branch holder over the jewelry.
“If you don’t want to wear it, you can just let it hang on your branch thing,” he says.
I hug him and smile. “That’s a perfect idea.”
We check out, tote a full bag into the van, ready to attack another driveway.