I don't have a bank account!
It's been seven years, and I never thought about it until this morning.
I have stamps now--a book of them--and I splurged on a bag of oranges, and I have a roof over my head, but I don't have a bank account. I don't pay taxes, either (how has the Chief managed that one?).
If I weren't here, if I were reading about this place in a magazine, it might sound catastrophic--like a cult. When are they going to bring out the Kool-aid?
But it isn't like that. It's just a safe place, a day-to-day living. I haven't considered it, because up until now, I only thought about making enough to cover my head, cover my body, and fill my belly. Now, I'm thinking about saving for a plane ticket, round-trip, to Raymond.
I put the weekend's earnings in the cookie jar. (Is this even safe?)
Maybe I should talk to Lydia. I try to imagine her reaction.
The card I bought for Henry sits on the table. I'm not ready. I need to think about what I'm going to say.
I pick up my needles and a ball of yarn. I'll work on what to write while I replenish my inventory. If I'm going to make enough money, I have a lot of knitting ahead.