I am trying to pick the perfect strawberries smelling the small containers, looking for fuzzy and furry spots when I hear someone who could sound like you ...if I listened hard enough. and still I look, frantic, wanting to shrink and crawl into the carton of sweet, juicy safety I am trying to return to normalcy although weekly chores feel like gearing up for battle; and there is no efficient camouflage for a suburban supermarket. my eyes begin shifting, searching, and scanning for familiar faces in the vegetable section, finding no one, thankfully. I am trying to find toothpaste
(avoiding cinnamon—your favorite, its spice underlining every little red flag) when the man beside me starts raising his voice at his wife, and I flinch, because shellshock has no time limit, it’s January again and you’re leaving for what seems like the tenth time in four years, and not making a quiet exit I am trying to remember how to grocery shop for myself but did you know there’s almost 30 types of pasta sauce here (and you always picked it out) but did you know after hearing he always seemed so sweet strawberries start tasting like anchovies but did you know PTSD isn’t just for soldiers anymore but did you know-- I always end up leaving with cinnamon toothpaste. Comments are closed.
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