drinkerthinker

The crumpled paper bag from this morning's breakfast-to-go is lying on my desk. The name of the woman who made (assembled? approved?) the lot from which this particular bag came is stamped on the bottom in green ink: Maria Figueroa.

I went to high school with a Maria Figueroa. I stop and try to pull up a better memory of her face, but I am not sure that brain is picking the right one. The yearbooks are at home in a box, taped up tight for this weekend's move.

Maybe on Monday I will remember to flip through and find her photo. Who knows, maybe the next high school newsletter will contain an alumna entry about how Maria is happy and successful in her paper bag empire. Maybe Maria Figueroa is just a common name, and these two women aren't even related.

Maybe I should finish my coffee before trying to write anything else today.