Walking towards the front door entrance of the grocery store, I noticed a man sitting outside the sliding electric doors. He was asking incoming patrons for any spare coins or cash. I had neither.
Why is it that when we get together, I’m not going to tell you that from the time you walked in, I’ve been sizing you up, unconsciously, by comparing my body, hair, and child to yours? Or that I canceled our last lunch date and told you that I was simply “cramping” when I really wanted to say that I felt like I was dying and felt all alone and wanted my mama and questioned why the good Lord had to give us cycles every month?