From Another Name for Bridge (Mansfield Press, 2006).

You’re certainly not doing itfor the money: that becomesclear when you imagine the weightof two quarters in your palmas you hand over the memory ofthe slow-speaking man from Madridwho gave you the miniature bronzecandelabra that has been in the bottomdesk drawer for years. Or a dimefor the grateful noise that child utteredat a table in front of the grocery storewhen you said yes to the tiny glass vasethat would send him to summer camp.People will pull up in their carsand finger your too-small wintercoats, the stale scent of the boxedcollection of Agatha Christie paperbacksyou stole from someone’s trashlast summer, the red skirt rippeda little along the back seam.Your unwanted, unusedlife splayed in front of you.And as you arrange the trinketsand memories into attractive groupingsdown the concrete stairs, acrossthe gently sloped green of the lawn,how much can you get rid ofbefore the moments contained withineverything get up and walk away,held tightly in someone else’s hand?