My mother is the high-end PR rep money can’t buy.
Three months before my closing date
she calls a press conference with
friends, family, her fitness classes,
schmoozes phone numbers from friends of friends
for complete strangers who are downsizing,
cleans out old estates,
fills up the back of her schoolbus
with headboards and dining chairs.
Now her living room is a children’s castle
of cardboard boxes labeled:
Crystal and wine goblets
Pots and pans
Cutlery and blender
Teacups and coffee mugs
We sit perched on beautiful, wobbly 1930s chairs
slicing open box after box,
unwrapping and rewrapping
The Toronto Star from each item.
When we find the gold wine goblets
with strange symbols carved on them
we simultaneously burst into singing
operatic random Latin words
laugh nervously and
try not to think about The Omen.
We yay and nay,
deciding fates like
beauty contest judges.
Glass rolling pin: keep
Mouse-chewed cookbooks: garbage
50th anniversary mugs: donate
Mini-muffin trays: keep