Did that woman know how her simple act of kindness turned our entire situation around?
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The time I almost lost my phone when it fell out of my pocket and went skittering down the storm drain.
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He climbed up the slide like a superhero, reassuring the child not to worry saying, “Don’t be afraid. I’m here for you. I’ll go down with you.”
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I. As hippies, we repaired our jeans with patches, braid, embroidery floss. A statement: flower power. Decades later came heavy metal, grunge. Tattered and torn, a statement: fuck you. Now, designer distressed, professionally ripped in all the right places, a statement: I’m with it, at any cost.

II. Broken, faded, distressed, frayed. I’m not talking about my heart, dreams, mood, nerves; I’m talking about my jeans. I buy them new, true blue, then break them as they fade over time, rip at the knees, fray at the hems — like my wrinkles, earned by wear and tear, experience. Pride of ownership.

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100 words

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