Long ago, a New England town, Main Street, ramshackle second-hand store. I entered … old tools, chipped china, photo albums of long ago families. Nothing I needed but, in a wooden box, a jumble of old hymnals, rosary beads, magnetic dashboard figurines. Deep within, a well-worn crucifix, six inches long, metal with inlaid wood. I carried Jesus to the cashier. She said, “You know that ain’t real silver.” I said, “I’m alright with that.” I handed her the ransom. She offered neither bag nor wrapping, not even a kind word. We left that old store, glad to be gone.