The Evangelical at Table 21

Kaylee Lowe

I’ve counted $83 in ones

after my fourteen-hour Friday

when I remember why my

apron feels heavier. I reach

for the gold coin pouch

shimmering in the muted light.

I pull open the drawstrings

and see the corner of a $100 bill.

There’s no way. It was left by my old

pastor’s wife next to a pile of napkins.

I pull it out and pretend it’s real.

Is God telling me to go back

to the Baptists? I turn it over

and the faded letters read

This bill may look real, but

it would not be accepted

by a bank, no matter what you

believed about it. The same is true

with spiritual matters.

I think of the smear of her red lipstick

and how her husband tipped his hat

to me. I go outside and fan away

a cloud of smoke. As I sweep my

section the dustpan catches some

stray golden glitter.