The invoice read
“palm ash for 100”.
I held the miniscule baggie in my hand.

I had removed it a moment earlier
from an unmarked envelope
that I had mistaken for junk mail
until the slight heft at one end
prompted me to carefully tear it open.

When the tiny package slid out I looked
back inside, thinking
“Is that all there is?”

But there it was in its totality,
Enough dark smudges for a full three years
Of ash Wednesdays at my small church.
Three years of remembering, of contemplating,
Of preparing for Friday.

So much grace in so small a package.