Money was tight; practically non-existent. Every trip to a store a choosing game. Bread or coffee (coffee). Weighing her down even more than the pain some days. Then there were the energy/pain choosing games. Wash the floor or have a shower (shower).
Fog days. Her mind shrouded in a thick, dark grey mist. She might forget to pay a bill, or where she left her mittens. Hands became blue, orange and purple in the icy January air. No money to replace them. So she tripled up her one-of socks into thumb-less mis-matched mittens. She wondered, “Maybe I’ll start a trend.”
Next pair of mittens, she’d attach together with a string so as not to loss one or both. “Idiot mittens,” her mother called them. “For idiots like you.” Then her mother sharply pulled the crotch to throat zipper of the stiff brown snow suit, and tell her to do up the buckles on her buckle snow boots. A fumbling job, at best. Ugh.
Maybe no string; she wasn’t an idiot. Never had been.
edit or finish the post (finish). word count: 165
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