At Grift & Sift, Chapter 11


This, yet.

Easter week, Grandgirl the Youngest accidentally left her packed bag behind in Pittsburgh. Only after she and her mom burst into our house did the knowledge dawn.

Startled cries.

I knew exactly what to do.

In the afternoon, within earshot of Fitting-Room Lady, we combed the racks—Youngest and I—for enough things scruffy enough for scruffy Virginia. Leggings already with holes. A slippy top with sleeves we could shorten with scissors. And decent clothes, too, and even a taffeta ball gown, chocolate, with sashes. The smear of something on the skirt washed right out.

You see? As is. The scratches and patches. The oldies and oddies. The frayed and the faded. The fled from and forgotten. Things can turn out not be calamities.

 


 

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