It was almost the sun's bedtime and from not so far on the other side of the street I could see an old man sitting on a plastic chair next to a sign that read "Last Minute Garage Sale".
The sign was written on cardboard that was on its last feet and the words looked like they were written by his grandkids,
each colored differently in a chicken scratch pattern.
The old man had the face of a man who won prom king 50 years ago.
He looked like he was trying to hide his own head inside his body like a turtle.
Aside from the fact that he looked like he was melting, I'd give him another hour.
The closer I got to him
the more I realized that I didn't know if I should wake him up, call 911 or get some freebies.
When I approached him I greeted him with a simple "hi, what are you selling?"
And I could see his eyes get unstitched and his tongue hit his lips like a dog drinking water with each word as he replied with "Everything I own".
I took a glance at the tables and a peek at the inside and asked him "Sold a lot already?" While yawning he replied "Not since noon".
If you saw these tables with the glass half full perspective then it wouldn't be so bad.
After walking around examining the goods I couldn't tell if they were old, vintage, artifacts or relics.
Surprised they were still here considering that vintage is something people say they love though probably not reliable.
But how could I know? I'm just a blossoming wallflower.
Among the antics I found two bulks of paper. It looks like it was written with a typewriter that was next to it but that's just common sense. As soon as I reached over to the first bulk I could smell the old man's breath, it has that old mint onion smell. The title read "The Diary of my Heart" and even though I already knew I still asked "You wrote this?" Without much breath he said "A long time ago". I saw the strains and I could hear the crackles from the papers with each touch and with fainted breath I said "How long ago?" He responded with a sarcastic tone "Maybe 5 years or 10" So I said "I see that age has gotten to you already." With a smug look he said "Just read a bit".
After reading a bit it I noticed how specific it was. It just wasn't a story, it was his life as well. That it would take me weeks to read and years to truly understand what he's gone through. I'm guessing that the second bulk would be the years part of it. I solemnly asked him "Does this mean anything to you? It looks abandoned by the looks of the papers but the ink nurtured. He responded with "It's my life" but then he disagreed with himself "Part… Of my life"
I asked "Is this all you wrote?" He sighed and without looking at me he said "I never realized my dream. I had so much to do and was so satisfied with my life that I forgot to be happy. Maybe I was so sad when that said happiness left that I preferred to stay sad
than to have my happiness taken from me again."
"If you read you'll find out"