Stella Nesanovich

It can happen like that: meeting at the market, buying tires amid the smell of rubber, the grating sound of jack hammers and drills, anywhere we share stories, and grace flows between us. The tire center waiting room becomes a healing place as one speaks of her husband's heart valve replacement, bedsores from complications. A man speaks of multiple surgeries, notes his false appearance as strong and healthy. I share my sister's death from breast cancer, her youngest only seven. A woman rises, gives her name, Mrs. Henry, then takes my hand. Suddenly an ordinary day becomes holy ground.