dog years: You Can Only Hold Onto a Few Things Tightly
I saw Anna in the grocery store. She had a strained expression on her face. When an elderly lady in the lane beside her moved, I could see below Anna's shoulders. Her arms were full of quick items. It was obvious that some of the things were afterthoughts: SoftSoap, coffee creamer, batteries. She had a box of cereal under her arm and it was slipping. Anna bent to her hip and brought her knee up to adjust the box. She was biting her bottom lip. You can only hold on to a few things tightly.
I paid and left without speaking to her.
If I had said hello, she would have acted as though she was happy to see me and smile. People would have watched us. Anna would then move against me and slide some of her items to me without asking . Then she would have lit a cigarette and starting smoking, until she suddenly remembered where she was. I'd have to listen to how she did the same thing in the hospital, and the church fellowship hall, and her sister's house. She wouldn't look at me when she spoke. By the time we got to the cashier, her stuff would be in my cart and I would have paid for the whole deal.
"Oooh, could you put mine in a paper bag, please?"
And she'd go on about plastic and recycling and Goodwill while I carried it all to her car.
"You look good," she'd say, and squint and furrow her brow, for emphasis or concern. Then completely fooled, I'd tell her about my book and a story I had published in Ploughshares.
"Oooh, you are so talented," she'd say, and pick up a perfume sample that had been left on the dash and look past me for something more entertaining.
She'd pull away as she lit another cigarette, in mid sentence, her words trailing through the space in the glass, mixing with the smoke. For all I'd know, she'd still be talking out loud, continuing on about the same topic. Only, I'd be walking back to my car and she'd be three miles from home.
So instead of going through all of that, I just paid and left.