“I see, I see.” He picked up one of John’s books—A People’s History of the United States—and leafed through it. John’s mother had given it to him for Christmas last year. I realized suddenly that many of my items for sale had been given to us by John’s mother—there was the chenille sweater she’s given me for my birthday, one that had a wide collar and tunic shaping, the kind of thing I would never wear. I looked at it more closely—it still had a Macy’s sales tag, with the price ripped off, dangling from the sleeve. I also spied some of the baby outfits she had bought for Michael; he was growing so fast that hardly anything fit him any longer. I made a mental note to shop at the other tables myself to see if anyone was selling used baby clothes cheaply.

“My daughter would like this book … how much do you want for it?”

“Two?”

“I like that price. You have yourself a deal, pretty lady.”

He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, but paused and then knelt down to look at my baskets, the top edge of his golf bag tapping my table. I’d brought three of them with me: one had green and black weaves; one had a red, white, and blue pattern; and one was plain straw-colored, with some dark brown edging.

“How much for these?”

“Thirty dollars,” I said, trying to keep my voice casual. He didn’t react, just nodded. “They’re handmade, by yours truly.”

“Is that right?”

“It’s my hobby.”

He stood up. “They’re beautiful—you have a good eye for design.” I really thought he would buy one, but then he just pulled two dollar bills out of his wallet and handed them to me.

“Thanks,” I replied, forcing a smile.

“Good luck.”

“Have a good one.”

For the next hour, I stayed busy. People came by and bought my old sweaters, CDs, and most of John’s books. One pregnant woman bought all of my maternity clothes and all of Michael’s newborn baby outfits. I charged her $25 for everything, and she was thrilled.

“Baby clothes are so expensive,” she said, handing me the money.

“I just hope you’re having a boy!”

She laughed, her brass beaded earrings tinkling as her head shook. “Even if I’m not, she wouldn’t know the difference.”

“It’s not healthy for a girl to be dressed exclusively in pink, anyway,” said a young woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses, who was fingering one of my sweaters.

“I agree,” said the mother-to-be. “Kids shouldn’t be put into categories.”

“Especially not from birth,” I chimed in.