There is something that feels inherently wrong about walking through someone’s home, perusing through the possessions and buying the dusty gems you find. Yet, estate sales are just that.
Slightly invasive and endlessly fascinating, estate sales provide the highest level of intrigue for me. They are achingly sad—a family once lived in between those walls, a woman wore those slippers and tokens of travel adorn the shelves. And I’m here to buy it? That can’t be right.
I’ve always been taught that we are not our material possessions. The people around you and your experiences matter most. Possessions, material objects and superficial bits can be replaced. Family cannot.
Because in the end, brace yourself for a morbid sentence, your stuff will be sold and only your memories, your work, your impression remains.