Nonetheless, here I am at 8:00 a.m. on a Sunday, pushing the key into the old copper lock, ready to start another morning. A memory of my mother doing the same morning routine fills my thoughts, her face beaming down at me.
I see her expression most mornings when I set the worn key inside its lock, but today the mirage of her face seems off—worried, fearful. Before I can dive deeper into the meaning, I am pulled out of my memory by a mass of crows in the giant oak tree next to our lot, cawing a special good morning.
“Good morning to you, too,” I say dryly, looking up toward the nearby tree at the mass of black feathers hidden beneath a sea of deep green leaves. A small breeze rustles through the tree above and caresses my skin. The summer heat feels welcoming. Only three months of this makes one long for a climate that holds this kind of warmth throughout the entire year.
Carya, the stray tabby cat, comes brushing along my feet and sneaks in once I have the door just barely open, almost tripping up my brown suede double strap Mary Jane clad feet. A recent fashion splurge that had a lot to do with the bottomless pina colada drinks my best friend Lollie and I had prior to shopping.
“And hello to you, sweet girl.” I scratch her orange striped back, and she arches just enough to show she is happy to see me.
After one wild stormy night, this fluffy bundle of fur turned up at the shop door as a kitten unannounced, starving and in need of a warm place to sleep. Over the past three years, I have watched Carya grow from a kitten to the soft lug I’ve come to call my own. Her soft meow is accompanied by another warm, devoted brush against my leg. The feeling is mutual, and she knows it.
My little shop of dated eccentricities is tucked between a tiny bougie flower shop and an inconspicuous and proper law office in Detroit. I smile, noticing how the soft smell of fresh blooms wafts around me. I enjoy the way it mixes with the archaic smell of the eclectic findings of my shop, which is why I usually keep my door open to welcome the aroma.
A frame of chipped salmon paint surrounds the stained-glass window that adorns the top of the door. Quiet reminders from the paint job years ago when we first had a more solid and hopeful vision for the place. A time much different from the position I find myself in now.
The ancient items surrounding me take shape in my still-groggy eyes as I walk into Moon Shadow Collectibles.Romantic-era prints line the walls—finds from estate sales, scavenged with my mother in the old homes of Detroit’s once-wealthy. Some would say the prints are excessive, morbid even, but I’ve always had an affinity towards that dark, ethereal era of art. My mother would roll her eyes whenever I’d ask her to look for pieces of this era, but she always did. Now they greet me each morning like a quiet echo of her infinite love, even as her presence fades.
I see her looking at me now with her sage eyes that hold a wisdom I can’t even begin to interpret. Eyes are funny that way. They stay locked in my memory of all the words that were never said, but clearly conveyed in one glance. Her eyescommunicated a lot of unspoken knowing when she was here, and they stay with me, even when my own close shut at the day’s end.
The store comes to life as I move to each switch and scrutinize some of the pieces I’ve seen every day for the last ten years. The art déco collection of old lock and key sets sparkles in its respective place next to the Romanian pottery vase we found by chance at an estate sale in Hamtramck. I trace the rough grooves of the spiky floral design as though my very own hand had etched them.
The half-melting candles in various candelabras drip with hardened wax as if frozen in time waiting to be released, and a first editionFrankensteinbook that has a not for sale sticker underneath it all greet me in silent earnest. Every one of these items I’ve cleaned, dusted, and researched over the past decade. All hold a small claim on my heart.
One piece in particular sits on the counter right next to the cash register. It is a willow tree made completely of jade stone. And while our old jade plant left me with no feelings, the cascading delicate green branches of this stone willow speak to me as if it were embedded in my soul. It sits heavy in the cradle of my palm as I give it careful consideration. A piece I’ve always loved, and a piece my mother told me never to sell.
My mother would take it with us wherever we were living, and it seemed almost attached to her since before I can even remember. And while I would always try to research it, I could recover no glimpse of its past or what time period it came from.
A small crack lines the inside curve of the trunk, but the faint line only adds to its allure. As a teen, I would look deep within its green sheen searching for the feeling it gave me. Hoping it might be something tangible that I could wrap my hands around. But delicate things don’t yield to the kind of wanting I carry.
Brushing my fingers along the base of the willow, I set it back in its place, surprised at myself that I even had the nerve to touch it at all. There is a boisterous caw from one of the crows that collectoutside my door just as the phone rings. My feet click against the oak floorboards, while I make my way to the telephone attached to the back wall. Its mustard yellow color, a stark contrast to the dated brown and blush pink pinstripe wallpaper behind it.
The voice that greets me is bubbly and full of way too much pep for this hour of the day. Lollie. She is trying to get me to come out for another round of bar hopping tonight.
As much as I try to be a homebody in the evenings, Lollie’s go get ‘em attitude always gets me feeling like maybe there is something to look forward to with a night on the town. Perhaps there could be a man to live up to the romantic expectations I’ve fabricated in my head. More often than not, it ends in poor decisions and a very unappealing headache the next morning.
“You can’t pull another ‘I have to clean the shop’ today.” Lollie exclaims into the phone. “I will not let you stay chained to a store that has one to zero customers a day.” Her voice is exaggerated as if I’m at the end of my journey with this shop.
“Wow, that’s harsh,” I say under my breath. I actually quite love this quiet shop, and Lollie knows that. She gets desperate when trying to get me to play along with her shenanigans. I toy with the stretchy spiral phone cord as I replay her words again. I wonder if I will ever not get sucked into her go arounds.
“I know. But there comes a time when you need to listen to your best friend in thewholeentire universe and have a night of forgetting. You can go back to remembering all your responsibilities tomorrow.PleaseJade. For me?” I can almost see her pout through the receiving line, and I look up to the ceiling every bit as annoyed with her persistence.
“Ugh, fine,” I give in as I roll my eyes out of habit. My worst habits are always brought out with phone calls involving my dear friend, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Great, because I also just bought some super groovydresses that need to be put to use!” Lollie throws in, knowing I love to dress up as much as I love going out.
Her eagerness for me to come out is palpable. It’s not her fault, though. There was a time when I couldn’t even get out of bed most days. To be honest, I think she keeps me busy so I don’t think about losing my mother too much. Other times I think she wants me to forget completely.
The months after losing my mother are ones I would like to forget, too. I’ve gotten much better. But the windows that haven’t been washed in weeks, and the shelves that sparkle with dust from the little light that comes into the shop through those same sad windows, say otherwise.
I put the phone down and shake my head with a lingering smirk on my face. No matter how hard I try to stay in my comfortable hermit mode, Lollie always sways me out. She is my day-one friend after all. And as much as I like to keep to myself, she seems to have wiggled her way into a permanent spot in my heart.
We grew up together during the most formative years of our lives. The years when boys reigned supreme and the Ouija board was a must at every sleepover. We were just coming into our own then. Caught between figuring out who we were and who we might be. Sometimes, I find I’m still in the midst of figuring out both of those things.
Lollie’s mom died when she was a baby, and her dad, whom I never actually formally met, spent all his time working. Because of that, Lollie basically lived at my house once we settled down in Detroit. My mom treated her as her own, even though she was the sole reason I ever got in trouble. She has a way of talking me into even the worst situations, and with that being said, tonight I will go be a part of her nightlife world.
If you follow the trail of muddy cat prints that line the floor behind the store register to a small white back door, you will find a tinyroom that holds a variety of miscellaneous items. A catch all kind of place, you might say. Within it sits a bunch of cleaning supplies, paperwork, and items for the shop that I have yet to research. I pull out the broom and let the stiff bristles swipe against the hard floor. Bits of dust plume into various cracks and crevices, never to be seen again.
Carya finds the warmest sun-soaked spot on the floor to curl up on, as the morning sun shines through the windows. I place the broom against the wall next to her. As calm as most days are here, I feel antsy. An uneasiness stirs the air and sets me on edge like the scratching of tiny fingernails inside my belly.
