Someone Has to Love the Crooked Ones

Ah it must be genetic.  For my grandmother was known for looking after the downtrodden and struggling.

Not that I’m as inclined towards altruistic involvement as I want to be, but I do have a leaning towards anything or anyone that/who is at risk of rejection.

Last week I was buying groceries and I chose a beautiful Bromeliad plant to take home.  I’ve loved them ever since my sister-in-law gave me one to mark the occasion of my daughter’s birth 21 years ago.

When I got it to the register, the checkout clerk said, “Oh you don’t want this one; it’s bent.”

And I blurted out, “Oh, yes, this is the one for me; I have a particular love of crooked things.  Someone’s gotta take home the messed up ones.”

We laughed, and then she said quietly, “Maybe you could take me home.  I’m messed up.”

I should have said, beyond the joking tone in which I did say it, “Come on; let’s go!”

I could tell I would have liked her.  We could have been messed up together while we admired the Bromeliad.


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