I had only ever seen her with the screen door between us, faded print house dress like a bed sheet draped limply over her portly frame. On this day, however, she came to my door. It must’ve been a special day, what with the makeup applied with a heavy hand, hair industriously curled to stand inches from her scalp. Her fancy outfit was a burgundy velour tracksuit, worn with sensible white sneakers, and I could tell she felt fabulous. “I’ve come from the food pantry,” she announced. “We had leftovers. Can you use them?” She gestured with a bag of potatoes in one hand, a plastic container of cherry tomatoes in the other. Potatoes and tomatoes. I chuckled inwardly at the rhyme, as I always do, and accepted gratefully.
She waved goodbye and walked briskly to her house. My neighbor lady. Her good heart wrapped in an unassuming exterior.