...

I don't know a lot about Marie. I know we lived on the same street. I know her family wrote her a long and tender obituary, from which I know that she loved baking and ceramics. I couldn't discern either of these passions from her estate sale - her family scooped her tools for these trades before the estate sale crowd could parse through them.

Of what was left for the sale, I know Marie had taste. A blonde wood-paneled basement with a tiled bartop of little hearts. Floral watches and bracelets - colorful rings and pendants. A few salacious books. A houseful of cozy oil paintings. Even Marie's dishwasher was adorable.

On a low shelf in a basement storage closet, I spotted a box of knitting and sewing supplies with a few other odds and ends marked $10. I noticed a couple of grandmas eyeballing it after I dug it out and it made me feel protective. Like it was my responsibility to stop them from co-mingling their grandma stuff with Marie's grandma stuff - from watering down the context of Marie's scraps and leftovers.

The box held, among other things, several small collections of items that stood out for their gorgeous colors. From these, I think (and in my gut, know) that Marie was a lover of color. I don't think a person can accidentally acquire, and hold onto for decades, perfect little spreads of color without being a true appreciator. Someone who understands the thrill of beautiful pill bottles. The importance of curating and coordinator a zipper stash. The way little bundles of color can be tied so directly to memory and emotion.

I hope that, someday, some little freak like me walks into my estate sale and sees how much I love color. I hope they see Marie's pill bottles and can sense another woman's colors amidst my own. Can discern the little collections amongst the broader color chaos I'm working towards.