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Waiting at the shelter counter to complete a volunteer shift form, I noticed her stroll in—little flowered coat, huge black bag in hand, as though it weighted more than she did. She had a calm presence, like someone who didn’t have to say much to be seen.
The luggage landed softly on the counter. I looked inside—dozens of hand-knitted hats in every pastel hue imaginable, each with a tiny pom-pom on top. Pink, coral, seafoam, peach—they looked like scoops of sherbet.