Ghosts of children in super center aisles
I opened my car door, and with a practiced economy of movement, slid out with my purse neatly over my shoulder. The heat of the day hit me full blast in the face, but I moved quickly — locking my car with a flourish of keys over my shoulder — and moved inside the grocery store. I was dressed casually, comfortable clothing swinging cheerfully as I walked the hot pavement toward the beckoning door. The air inside was lovely as I moved slowly through every aisle, selecting carefully from the loaded shelving everything that I needed. The brightly-colored boxes of crackers and gummy snacks a blur as I moved past them to the pecans and cashews I like to mix with dark chocolates. I placed a bag of blue tortilla chips in my cart, along with organic spinach and fresh mozzarella balls laced with spices. I pondered the cereal selection, and leisurely chose a box of Life and Cheerios, respectively. The canned ravioli aisle blew past me as I moved on in search of wheat flour, turbinado sugar, and dark roast coffee.
The sharp cry of a small child, followed by the urgent whisperings of a mom, made my head turn — knocking me out of my reverie. With small feet stomping and the tears as big as raindrops from a summer downpour, I watched his face turn bright purple as his mom struggled to calm him without the whole store noticing. His outburst was piercing, and I was overcome with unbidden thoughts that reminded me of how I did not miss these moments of parenting. Little faces looking back at you with short-tempered in-the-moment rage and how they would do anything they could to get what they wanted.
I looked down at the list I had neatly prepared on my phone, erasing several things I had procured, and adjusting the neckline on my shirt, I continued down the aisle I was in. But I got no further than several feet when I had to stop, remembering little hands grabbing my bigger hand — asking me if we couldn’t please get this huge bag of chicken nuggets that had sneakily been placed in my cart. The boxes of Capri suns bobbing against their chests as they ran back with the treasures they wanted to take home, and me, with my list of carefully-planned affordable foods that wouldn’t break my budget.
I was overcome with the memories of my children, three sets of hands and feet that I would have done anything to leave at home for a moment of silence between the pasta and the baking aisles; stolen moments of absorbing the joy and terrors of parenting. Most shopping days I packed them up, two car seats and one not, begging me for a Happy Meal and toy, as we played songs on the radio and sang at the top of our lungs. Big eyes and smiles along with fits had in the checkout line, the begging for candy bars and bubble tape and sour straws — and the times they sat and stood quietly while I paid for my carefully-curated budget-friendly cart and we left without incident.
I sought out the face of the little boy in the store, as I placed my post-children grocery cart items up onto the belt. I saw him sitting in the cart as his mom pushed a pile of groceries haphazardly out of the store, and I waved at him — his eyes luminous and face tear-stained. He faded away out the door and my heart prickled with grief at the loss of my small children, and in the next moment flooded with a soothing balm that I raised them to adulthood where they now buy their own groceries; how all is as it should be.
I walked outside to my car and neatly placed every bag inside, no crumbs and half-drank sippy cups full of juice littering the interior. I flashback to the chaos of getting everyone buckled in, as I slipped into my place behind the wheel and adjusted the playlist on my phone to play songs I want to hear. My purse neatly beside me and my list ticked off with every item I needed to buy, down to the large Gulf shrimp needed for ceviche later in the week. I stop for a coffee to go, six cream and one sugar, and dissolve into the music as I drive home; three small sets of dark eyes still in the back of my mind, then fading away.
