George T. Mormann

     It was a garage sale find. Not a lucky one. Just a find. Sitting on a fold-up card table with floral linens, a retro Mr. Coffee with tainted water rings, and rooster décor. Typical possessions of a dead Grandmother. Maybe even a dead Great-Grandmother, given that the woman selling these items, speaking fondly of her dead mother, looked to be well into her sixties. One of those glass blown, amber hued ashtrays. Twenty-five cents and looked brand new. It’ll go in the bag with this set of demitasse coffee cups and saucers, all wrapped gently in newspaper. As she wrapped the coffee cups, the woman reminisced on Sunday morning tea with her dead mother, using these very cups. Have a nice day and enjoy the rest of the Summer months.
     There was no need for another ashtray, in fact, it looked a lot like this one, which was a thrift store find several weeks ago. Those thrift store finds with their unknown origins, but long stories no doubt. Who else had hung this lithograph on their wall? The dust was still caked up at the top of the frame. Six dollars and a story that’ll never be heard by anyone. The previous owner was probably dead, too. Perhaps another Grandparent who passed down treasures to children without a use for it. It wasn’t their style. A print of a steamship on the Mississippi certainly has more meaning than an ashtray or set of coffee cups. It was a cheap find. A lucky one. It looked nice above the bookshelf and visitors asked where it had come from, or if it was a family heirloom, while sipping from these demitasse coffee cups.