When I am an old lady, I shall not wear purple. But a fishing visor and a polyester vest I have stolen from the employee lounge at Walgreens. I will smoke cigarettes and cackle like a bird, the insides of my practical walking shoes lined with rubies, because they are pretty and my feet have earned it. I will drive an old dodge truck and fill it up with items discarded, at the end of somebody’s garage sale, all that unwanted bounty. I will buy fake flowers and tie them to my rusty old bumper, bend the metal stems around my windshield wiper and watch the dirt stained blossoms smear the water across my window when it rains. I will not care so much but in the quiet crevices of no longer needing to know, or shine, I will deliver sermons on gratitude through the silence and I will fix my load of broken things and pass them on to someone with many teeth.