Close-up of my late cat Fian. He’s been gone for five years now, and I still mention him at least once every day. It’d be my luck that the first cat I had accepted me only begrudgingly until he became an old man. He’d be more likely to greet me with a hiss than a meow, but I loved him, anyway.
Yesterday my daughter and I shopped at Goodwill. She’d asked me to go there several times since I showed her my haul from my last trip there, but various other errands seemed more pressing until yesterday. Part of me was in disbelief that she was volunteering herself for secondhand shopping. This must have been the sentiment that drove my dad to check if I had a fever when he’d spot me vacuuming as a teenager. Whatever caused this change of heart (she used to complain that she felt imprisoned when I’d lose track of time combing through the racks at thrift stores), I’m grateful for her sudden enthusiasm. If not for this change, we would not be the proud owners of a t-shirt that shows Mt. Rushmore redone with cats.
We found six shirts and a pair of shorts for $29.36 total.