When the dust settled, they each took to a far away corner to count their prizes. In one pile teetered a nice T.V., a treasured photograph album, some pretty flower pots, a handful of silver pieces. In another precarious pile there was a bread machine, some books, some artwork. They both turned away rabid and ugly and striken. Nothing labeled as ours, but only now his or hers. Wild eyes and wilder looks replace the echos of silenced laughter. No more hand in hand. No more eye to eye. No fully draped, entwined twos, now only exposed, naked ones remain.
There used to be promise and hope with each new item brought into that space. Excited expectations of sharing that new goody, or witnessing those copper planters tarnish with the passing years as they sat back and took in the view. No more sitting together in tenderness looking over page after page of their years together, reminiscing and reconnecting for the past and the future. All that remains now are piles of stuff. A household collection part you and part me has become nothing but bargaining chips and salvos. All reduced to filthy, tainted lucre.