One misaligned spine in a tidy row of 'books' drew me.
To a cliched metaphor about Conformity.
Then the host of the yard sale ambled over.
He spoke of his father:
of neatly bound 'books' of 45 rpm records.
of a love of music.
of the promise of promotional singles.
of neatly bound 'books' of 45 rpm records.
of a love of music.
of the promise of promotional singles.
$300 for the lot.
Priceless treasures likely lurked in this carefully curated collection.
If the close of day didn't bring a sale, they'd catalogue. And Research.
I looked down at the mug of cooling coffee in his hand.
Up, at the faraway eyes beneath graying hair.
Up, at the faraway eyes beneath graying hair.
He didn't want a sale.
He wanted his father.
He wanted his father.
