We’re riffling through the racks
at the discount store.
Find any treasures? she asks me.
No, but it’s fun when you do —
it’s like panning for gold, I say.
I have all morning to look, she says.
My son’s singing with his college choir.
How really nice, I say.
Yes, but he doesn’t like me to come.
He’s self-conscious I’d have to guess.
How old is your son?
Eighteen and made the Dean’s List.
That’s great. You must be proud.
Yes I am. Thank you.
I raised him by myself.
That must have been hard at times.
It was. Thank you for saying that.
She pulls something bright out of the rack.
Thumbs up — it’s a red silk dress.
It’s less than she needs,
but more than she’s got.