There’s a woman who works at the grocery store back home.
Dry as corn husk, and as pale.
She uses her knotty hands to bag my buyings
slowly. I think she likes me to be there.
Across from her where she can pour her orb eyes on me,
ask about school, about life, about my mom,
though she doesn’t know my family,
has only known me since I got old enough to drive
to pick up groceries alone. Not alone, she is there.
She knows my name, I don’t know hers.
I remember her. When I was younger,
smaller at the counter, peeking up to watch her live.
She was larger, softer, voice was louder, hands were faster.
Never paid me any mind.
Now her eyes clutch my face,
the only things alive on her.
She says “Have a good day.” with a sadness
and I say “You too.” and I mean it.