Day twenty-eight, her smile.

She was dancing to music only she could hear.

Eyes closed, she whirled on one foot, her long auburn hair flying out as if spinning in an amusement park ride one warm summer's twilight. But this was Home Depot on a gray, drizzly January morning, and I had work to do. Not fun work either.

I smiled wondering what she was hearing, wanting to share the dance, even if for a single chorus.

But it was a private ride, authorization by invitation only.

In the plumbing aisle, I wondered if this was one more social display of the dichotomy we often feel when torn between tension, stress and anxiety, and our soul's need to express freedom, happiness, unabashed joy or some personal statement of self.  You don't need an exploding scoreboard or live on Pilgrim Road to know who is wining that contest.

Or, as another verse, can I be happy despite the relentless barrage of shit falling from laughing karma's outhouse?

Can I?

Can you?

The 1/2 CPVC coupler was twenty-eight cents, ninety-degree elbow, thirty-one. Her smile was free.