by Susan H. Evans

The plastic strip curtains clack over the doorway of the Haven of Mercy Thrift Store, as I heft in a large trash bag of old clothes. A bearded man in a cap and black coat — perhaps a recovering addict from the Mission — says, “You can put that anywhere.”

I plop the bag down on a decrepit corduroy sofa. Several people in drab coats, laughing and talking, cluster in the front of the store near a heater. I mill around the dim aisles, looking at jackets and coats tightly shoved together on heavy metal rods. On the cracked linoleum floor, cardboard bins spill out winter’s detritus — striped scarves, woolen hats, and fur-lined gloves.

The place needs better light, I think, straining to see. Freezing air circles my ankles and bites my hands. A young, slender woman passes by me. Dark-haired, coatless, she cradles a sleeping newborn in a blanket, the baby’s fragile pale head uncovered. On the stained floor in a corner, a boy scoots a toy train around. Two young teen girls watch six old RCAs lined up in a row, illuminated blue glares of the same movie on all screens.

Dusty bookcases tower over the girls. I glance up and see an unframed picture of a faded Jesus above the televisions. “You are Amazing Just the Way You Are” plays from an old radio. In a back corner, the young mother nurses her baby, huddling on a blue plastic bin of curtains and quilts. A burial mound of children’s crumpled jeans, worn pajama tops, and baby gowns tower on her right side. On her left, a wooden rack holds chipped leather high heels, dilapidated boots, scuffled and almost sole-less penny loafers. A bootie lies on the floor in front of her, crisscrossed by a muddy shoe print.

Satisfied that the store has nothing for me, I walk towards the exit, and overhear an older woman say, “God has been good to me this year. I have been blessed.” Others murmur, “Me, too.”

I finally realize this place has something for me, after all, and it isn’t on a rough wooden shelf or hanging on a rusty rack. The store’s gray shadows fade away, as I begin to see clearly. The nursing mother and child, the “underprivileged” regulars, and the curling print of a framed Jesus all seem to point to a long-ago story set in another improbable place where miracles happened and hope radiated out into a dark world like ripples on a vast blue ocean.

These strangers standing around a small heater transform this place, and transmit a power that travels far beyond the crumbling parking lot of the Haven of Mercy, spreading light, even as earthly light fades from the sky on this January afternoon.

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Susan H. Evans lives in Baltimore, Maryland. She teaches at a community college and writes poetry and memoir. She gardens, travels, and helps care for her infant granddaughter, named after the First Lady — Eve, of course. Susan is published in Daily Inspired Life Magazine, Mocking Owl Roost, Rising Phoenix Review, and Metapsychosis Journal.