While my sister was fingering the linens at an estate sale in our hometown of Jackson, Mississippi, she noticed her friend Sally Sue’s mother combing through a pile of National Geographic magazines.

“Please don’t let my daughter do this to me when I’m gone,” she said to my sister before making her way toward a box of assorted Tupperware lids.  “Promise me you won’t let her sell my teacup collection when I’m gone.”

I thought about this when I wandered into an estate sale in Green Hills. It was late in the day, and I had smelled bargains all the way from Hillsboro Village. Usually I enjoy such treasure hunting, but for some reason this particular house unsettled me. I think it’s because there were so many family photographs included in the offerings. Group shots encased in wood, portraits ringed in silver. Bulletin boards layered with Polaroid squares and greeting cards, corsages and ticket stubs. Maybe the company hosting the sale thought we would want the frames, or the cork, or the dried flowers. Who knows?

While staring at the photographs, I found myself captivated somewhere between curious and sad. It hit me that I will never know how long the couple in the 8 x 10 glossy was married; whether the teenage boy in the jersey made the touchdown; the location of the ski trip that looked like such fun. In short, I can’t hear the family’s stories. Instead, I settle for an armful of their belongings, souvenirs from what I hope were lives well lived.

Amy Lyles Wilson