Monday, November 18, 2013

Hand Me Downs


“Hand me downs?  You want me to wear hand me downs?  Don’t you know anything?  Your work shirts may come from The Dakota Ranch Second Hand Store.  I’m ok with that.  Hell, you look good in anything, but me?  Look at me!  Do you really think I’d find sizes to fit me at a second hand store?”

She flounced angrily onto the fouton, kicked off her slip-ons, and wrapped her hands around her knees.  Trying to avoid him, she stared out the bay windows.  The lake was covered in a thin shell of ice.  It would be a long winter before the hatchlings would break out of that pale white cage, she thought.  And me, it’s gonna be a lifetime before I agree to wear hand me downs.  She muttered, “Do you realize a woman who is now dead, a woman who died at 75, belonged to those clothes?”

“Tamara, you’re making a big deal out of nothing.  Becky just handed me the bag and asked if you would like to look through it before she passed it off to the Second Hand store.  I didn’t give it a thought.  The bag’s been sitting in the truck for the last three days. It was so important that I forgot all about it.” . . .