She doesn't really believe how a noisy house full of kids, a table piled with school books, and the smallest kitchen I've ever seen can be beautiful. How just a couple of tea cups steaming, shared by friends can make the chilliest days steeping with warmth.
It's hard to make her understand that dining room walls tacked with alphabet posters and president's faces mean love and care and time spent well. How homemade banana bread slathered in butter offered on a paper plate is hospitality of the dearest kind. How this life, the things we give away—it's all this irreplaceable, unholy beauty.
Light on refrigerators, marked up calendars and kid-made magnets, there, unashamed and lovely—irreplaceable gift, unrepeatable beauty.
It's the things given away, even when things are few, that hold the most beauty.