There is a backed-up line awaiting at Wegman’s recycling of cans and bottles; large grocery carts overflowing, like a snowy tree-lined ski slope. I carry a small bag of maybe a dozen cans, standing still with my thoughts, should I come back? A toothless man with mountains of cans stretches forth his two quarters in exchange for my cans -without introduction- unshaven, a complexion of poverty. I refuse his 50 cents, us both smiling, to his thank you.

Another day I am in the laundromat, where the bill changer is not cooperating with my one dollar, so I end up short 50 cents needed to start the washing machine. I ask a woman with several piles of laundry if she has two extra quarters, replying, “I can’t” until she sees my offering of 5 dimes, which turns into a “yes”, sending me a mournful smile. Of course, I say Thank you so much! sent with a compassionate smile.

After my clothes are clean, it becomes clear that same woman is struggling financially, while her man-friend is helping her to wash their clothes. They are white poor, like the man at Wegmans. As I leave, I give them $5, hearing a cautious thank you, receiving a squinted smile.

Another day soon after, I am in line at CVS to pay for printed photos. The woman with uncombed hair in front of me cannot make her credit/debit card accept payment. I pay the 8 dollars and some cents for what looks like Depends pads. She accepts, but does not turn to look at me, as I hear a soft thank you. A complexion of shame?

I am 78, a very middle middle class white woman, who has been lower middle class, close to the poverty line, but never crossed over, although once on Medicaid for a year. My growing up complexion of anger has been moisturized with many many tears, washing away the anger; the wildfires, opening my heart to evolving tenderness, as is the rain to mother earth that smooths my wrinkled complexion.