Salvation

What I grew up understanding as charity has become fashion
and the salvation army stores are now a one stop shop for the currently cool.

But I am of the old school.
Winter closets sorted once a year,
paper grocery sacks neatly layered with outsized and worn sweaters,
corduroy pants and cracked white leather summer sandals.
Hand me downs for the little sister my three brothers would never be.

On one such trip years ago we traveled into the city
to exchange our three bags full for a satisfied sixties conscience.
Still functioning on the lowest of overheads, the store front was an inviting jumble.
Lingering in the racks in need of a winter coat
I found an Ichabod treasure among the woolen wear.
A black buttoned waistcoat that was old enough to have hand sewn seams
and was made for a smaller nineteenth century form.

The dark solid shadow has become a familiar presence in my studio
and it’s black silhouette against the century old weather stained wooden pegged door
was a contrast I couldn’t pass up.

Three days into the painting I was interrupted by a truck lumbering down our gravel lane. The
engine stopped below the cabin door and I got up to investigate.
All I could see was the side of the transport.
It had the word Salvation painted on a white background.

A neighbor had called for a pick up of her closet offerings.
I peeked my head out and shouted directions over the rumble of the engine.
And the title for this work slammed into my consciousness.

I have a renewed dedication to dig deep and give of my closet
and am going to buck the current grocery convention
and request paper instead of plastic for the the next few weeks.