Pilgrimage

Our final pilgrimage to my favorite Goodwill was a resounding success, but it was twinged with the usual autumn sadness. My father died in the fall when I was nineteen. For whatever reasons, I began shopping at thrift stores shortly after. Maybe I needed to prove I could take care of myself. Or maybe I wanted to give discarded items one last chance at usefulness. A selective resurrection.

Whatever the origins, it’s a spiritual practice now.

Time ceases to exist as Original Source and I sort through bins of castoffs and misfits, keeping in mind the needs and tastes of everyone we love. The possibilities are endless. Our cups and our carts runneth over.

Unpacking is less rewarding. Original Source abdicates as I face the flood of questions:

How did this get in my cart? What, dry-clean only? Why didn’t I check this zipper? Where’s the other boot? Will this really fit her? Oh, dear, are scarves out of style? Aren’t they still worn by Germans and movie stars?

Then, the recriminations:

You have too much stuff. Red is not your color. You’re a hoarder, a second-hand capitalist. You idiot, here’s the other boot, and they’re both for the left foot. Five aprons will not make you a better cook. There’s no room for more coats. And this candle stinks!

Next, the defenses:

You can’t have too much hand sanitizer, and red looks better with a little blue. That stain might come out. It’s hard to find a gold lamé shawl when you need one or Halloween pajamas, for that matter. Single boots make quirky, boho vases, and if the electricity goes out at night, you can locate that candle by smell alone.

Finally, action:

It’s all sorted. Little futures line the halls like wallflowers. I sidle up, dressed for any occasion, hoping Someone will ask me to dance. My imagination has a touch of arthritis, but I can still feign elegance and squeeze my feet into glass slippers.

Here’s the truth: Glass slippers offer no support whatsoever and shatter easily.

The sound of breaking glass attracts Cinderella’s attention. She glares from her repurposed throne, fanning herself.

“No worries,” I tell her. “I’ll glue the shards into a collage and call it Happily Ever After.”

Prince Charming and I bring in the last load of laundry.

“Warm for this time of year,” he says, mopping his brow with a silk bandana.

Cinderella sashays over in a chiffon gown, and Prince Charming tenderly takes her hand. Original Source takes mine, and the orchestra begins playing my grandmother’s favorite waltz. I have no idea how close we are to midnight, but I don’t care.