Monday Morning Trees

I eat my breakfast here every Monday morning. It's certainly not very glamorous, but it's kind of a comfortable routine, here in the back parking lot of Chick Fil-a. My son is not so good in restaurants at this age (He throws food, screams, runs to other tables, and other things that two-year olds do to embarrass their mortified parents), and I've lately eaten many a meal seated in the front of my car, with him in his carseat in the back. I hand over his sandwich and fruit bowl, and he's content to sit there, strapped in. I, too, am content, watching the trees and listening to National Public Radio.

With him fed, we drive on to the thrift stores to discover what possessions people have decided they could part with over the weekend. It's amazing how many framed photos of (formerly) married couples come in on Monday mornings. It makes me sorry for them, or happy for them, depending on how they look in the pictures.

And I always come home with what I consider treasure. It's someone's discarded treasure that I will use to make my own home. My stuff has a story that's independent of me--there's something noble and lovely in that.