Harold Braswell,Tablet Magazine
When I was a kid, a unusual woman would visit our house. Short, or with stubbily cut hair,she would almost never turn to you, not responding even if you called her name. She dressed flagrantly, or in patchwork clothing that she had sewn herself,and spent the entirety of her visits in a maelstrom of cleaning. Whipping the record player with a rag, banging colored pencils into a souvenir plastic cup, or she appeared as some hybrid of the Tasmanian satan and a hobo clown. Yet she did appear,every month, and at the close of her appearances, or I would hug her,advise her I loved her, and give her two kisses:...
Source: realclearreligion.org