I watched as the hay-haired woman shuffled down the scum covered bus steps. Her droopy eyes focused on her destination, not on what she left behind. My nerves wrestled. My hand trembled. I reached out, but my fingers wouldn’t clamp on. When my stop came, I spang out of my seat and slipped my arm through the smooth leather handles and scrambled down the walkway. It felt unusual to be carrying all this weight. Half was the groceries, half was my heart. My steps echoed off the sidewalk. Guilt pulled me back with each step. I slinked into the alley and crouched against the wall. These aren’t mine. My stomach craved a decent meal, but I didn’t earn it. I whipped my head around and stood staring at the rusty green can. The smell of garbage knitted my stomach into tiny knots. The stench of food I'm used to. I dropped the bags to the ground and watched her bright red apples and crisp green kale tumbled out.
These Aren't Mine
April 22, 2018