Church Girl
Cele was seated in the kitchen, halfway through having her haircut by her granddaughter when I arrived. I had met Cele at the cent sale a few days before and learned, to my surprise, she was 83. She told me her secret was her faith and asked me, “Are you a church girl?” She didn’t mind that I wasn’t and when she gave me her address, it struck me that a stranger would never do such a thing in the city. We had coffee and she showed me around her home, pointing out a brown crocheted throw on the couch, to which she had added a single row of bright stitching to liven it up. Cele reminded me of my grandfather, the man I admired most.