my grandmother's trunk and an old sheet tossed over a small stack of blankets.
the cat likes to sleep there.
today is jeans with a faded tshirt, fingernails broken, toenails painted. no mascara, no eyeliner, but yes to a bit of lipgloss. more gray and silver in my hair and even a bit of white now mixed into the brown. pearls around my wrist. mexican food with my brother and his family for lunch; he noticed the table next to us, a one dollar tip left by two women. perhaps the waitress deserved no more, perhaps the women had no more to leave. but it was sunday lunchtime busy and i had a couple of bucks in my pocket. i tossed them over to the table before the waitress returned. sunday, i said. tithing. and we all laughed.
out of church tithing was an accidental lesson my mother taught me.
it's the small things that stay with you.