when i'm old & have too many

i hope to have a stand at an antique market
when i'm old & have too many small sincere items.
dad & i would get up early on a saturday.
blue morning. the sun peering over all our objects.
we'd to go exploring the piles of antiques 
spread across adamstown's gravel parking lots.
a sea of trinkets resting on wooden tables 
& quilts. dad sifting through plastic tubs 
of old coins. he was trying to find just the right one.
he'd pick one up at a time & say 
not it, not it, not it.
i would find a toy stand 
& look for a bin of action figures.
my tiny soft hands rooting between plastic bodies.
it never occurred to me back then that those coins
& those toys belonged to someone. 
someone held them between thumb & finger 
with purpose. tucked coin in a back pocket.
walked the toy people 
across a living room carpet. where i'm from
we don't own anything notable
though up the street someone sold a boat.
it lay rusting in their front yard for weeks 
before someone bought it for scrap metal.
we take pride in our antique market finds.
a neighbor of mine had plastic cows
all over her kitchen as decorations.
another one collected old milk bottles.
he planted flowers in all of them each spring.
dad & i once found a giant stuffed trout
that i hugged all the way home
as we drove winding pennsylvanian roads.
what i'm trying to say is i want to die
by giving away whatever unique pieces 
i happen to own. i want to set my books in stacks
on a bright april morning & let strangers 
pick through them. all my old stuffed animals
tired & sun worn but still useful.
at the antique market nothing is useless.
the vendors walk with each other 
to the breakfast food stand & order hash browns 
& egg sandwiches. dad & i eat too.
sit next to each other. discuss
what more we'd like to find.
dad wants a world war 1 bayonet
& i want a nice felt hat. i will be sitting there
in a folding chair at my stand,
selling myself a hat with white fake flowers
sewn into the rim. she will pay in crumpled dollars.
a gust of wind will try to blow the hat
off her head but she will catch it.
i will wave 
as she leaves to show our dad.
i will go home with all the trifles
that no one chose. load them up in a truck.
this is a chance to pick each one up again
& remember what it meant when it was 
new in my fingers. i will consider
giving up & not selling any of my remaining items
but i'll remind myself 
that this is how people like us
are remembered. a quiet scattering.
dad & her drive home. she sets the hat
in her lap.