Wrapped in her favorite overalls, thick hair as fresh and untamed as she herself, I questioned her bulging pockets. A hoarder, her collections soothe emotional scars and provide comfort. Items of no practical use in her world, become invaluable, acting as a buffer to help keep life's jagged edges at bay. Front pockets, stuffed full like the corners on our old billiard table, we sat quietly in a booth overlooking the river. Blackened scallops, cheese grits and fried shrimp shared our table, but said nothing. Sweet tea dripped wet circles that touched the edge of my napkin and moved into it like a living thing. Slowly, she pulled out her flotsam, skimmed from the sea of waste that is our culture, treasures in her eyes, and offered a shared intimacy that's taken me more than thirty years to earn.
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