And who knows but that your hands have calcified, yellowed with wisdom, wrinkled in water, and flaked polish for the yeast scenting your fingertips, and the water bottles in your trunk, and the key loose in your palm, and the bag of fabric (splitting at its seams), and the band-aids in your purse, and this letter in its plain envelope. For the neighbor, still stinging from stitches. For the thirsty stranger by the red light. For the college student without holiday plans. For the young mom in dangling threads. For your daughter hunched over the toilet. For the least of these we forget. But still exist. For such a time as this.