Her jeans are gray and carry the work of her last few days–coffee stains and cookie crumbs and milk dust.
Her jeans tell the world of her, if the world would look. They resemble the half-read newspaper at the morning table, after the kids have spilled their oatmeal and mom has spilled her coffee, the pages stained and scattered by haste and amusement but not yet ready for the bin, for the pages might still hold some powerful secret about the news of the day or, at the least, might say something of the past so tomorrow might be less surprising.
Her jeans today are like the newspaper. And her hours spent in solitude, when she rejoices in herself, or when she feels sudden loneliness and cries, are the smudges of ink that cover my fingers, which I don’t mind, because I am interested in her lines and know so well her language.