#96 Finder

by Evan Graham

Faith was a soap bubble stretched between the veins of a dragonfly’s wing, and it was hard to have when you lived off others’ leavings. But Wei was a true finder, and surely that meant something.

Others weren’t quite as good, or lucky, and there were many. They competed to discover the treasures of the midden, plucking through soggy paper and slick plastic for the occasional suitcase discarded still full of clothes, the rare box of old cell phones, the practically new toy robot.

She believed some trash knew it wasn’t, called to her, wanted to be saved. She listened, found it, made it whole again, a new treasure for her or another to cherish always. Rejuvenating, recycling. It was amazing the things people threw away.

It was only in the night, when she lay in the alley beneath a sheet of plastic, and looked at her hands, which had had three age spots last year, five this, that it was hard to keep faith, to blink away the sudden tears, to believe.

Then one morning as she was checking the dumpsters she heard the sound. She rifled the remains of a dozen cardboard boxes, her breath catching as she threw the last aside.

The child was a few weeks old, fast asleep. With all the awkward care she could muster, Wei scooped it up, a little girl, and cradled her. Its eyes opened, met hers.

Wei was a finder, and knew she would be all her life.