We went to market yesterday. We bought a few plants and flowers. Bouquet in hand, wearing my mother’s top, they both felt, not like trophies, but certainly signs of my good fortune, as I stepped lightly through the streets of Aix en Provence.

It’s because of her that I held the belief for so long. It wasn’t until last year that I learned (I don’t want to say truth) the alternative meaning to “this little piggy went to market.” From the time she pinched each of my toes with the verse, throughout our days of wandering all of the Dales, it had been about shopping. Never the horrors of the butcher.

Not to say we didn’t live in the truth. Oh, the truth was very apparent and ever near.  But it was more of a decision, I suppose, of choosing how to see the day. How to see this life. Choosing my market.