grocery list

unaccordioned, it begins to tell a story I am not old enough to read.

I.

No, I am not old enough to read it yet, but it sounds just like me. It has all the elements that I know to be mine. Like oranges, tumbling out of an upset paper grocery sack.

That's me, I suppose. The bag. Lying sideways on the floor, like I like to do. The kitchen floor is not a punishment, but rather a delight. What did we get at the store today?

Oranges, obviously. For sweetness. Gingersnaps, nostalgia. Toothpaste, fresh, new. Limes, acidic but clever. Notepad, storytelling. Ballcap, hiding.

He notices the hat brim riding low over my eyes. He wants to perceive me, but I am frightened. Sometimes. I am careful not to place my identity in a quality or a state of being, but this is a familar space for me. Occasionally I wish I was invisible.

Life is not like grocery shopping, but then sometimes it is. You get to decide what goes in the cart, but you do not get to decide what the store has in stock. My mom goes to two different grocery stores to find her french beans. Haricots-verts, I say. She smiles.

II.

Maybe I will write a book someday, for no one to read. Anatomy of the Wounded Mind. It is simply for me, to mapmake. To understand where I have been. I am coming out of that season, differently than I expected. Again, I am careful not to find identity in such transience, but it is good to jot down as a note.

Safety is mine, once again.

I talk to myself through time. It is a miracle, when you think about it. I sing to little me, and she writes me a letter in return. I do not know the answers to the questions she is asking me. We stand adjacent, little-shoulders to woman-waist, marvelling at our council of two. We were brought together in divine timing and I reject the idea that I had something to do with it. This is beyond me.

She is little and "prophectic" at the same time (her spelling). She is brazen and pugnacious and entitled. She is me, fourteen years ago.

Did we do it? Did we learn to trust fully and completely and sweetly? Sometimes. I would say we learned to respect. To revere. Accept the inevitability of doubt but give in to mystery and holiness. Never question that He could do Something. You just have no idea what it is.

Do we trust Him? Yes, in a way. He reveals more to us than He should. More than we deserve. He is God, after all. But He has a special place for girls who wonder. For those who are willing to march right up to Him and yank on His garments.

That's us, I say, elbowing Little Greta.

I Know, she says, knotting a friendship bracelet.

What is this, prophecy? How did you know at eleven years old? It swirls like mysticism beneath us, asking me to let go of it and believe it has a purpose at the same time.

The furnace has made me different in many ways. I am not scared like I was, I am scared in a different way now. It is manageable and in remission. I am not angry like I was, I am intrigued. I am willing to accept propositions of horribleness as not-what-they-seem. If something was to devastate me, I might ask for more context before deciding it was actually awful.

Grief is not my enemy anymore. He is a counsellor and a stomach cramp at the same time. Not comfortable or even really comforting, but necessary. Willing to be reckoned with. I am not afraid of him.

III.

And who is the newcomer? I am discerning for myself.

All the Little Me's line up in order, offering me their words. Each understands this one to be safe, congruent, healthy. If it was a pass/fail class, he gets a pass. The curriculum is perhaps too consuming if scored by letter grade.

And what of prophecy? Pass again.

But I am no teacher, and no student. I am the decorative posters they put on the wall that I hope no one is looking at. Wrong. Little Me no. 8 is placing the letters in order of specialness: calligraphy, bubble letter, serif, capitals, san-serif, lowercase, punctuation marks.

The contexts and environments shift like my dreams. Is this a new classroom for me? What does it mean to hone a skillset? How can you study a merry-go-round?

By taking it apart, he says.

Oh.

Dismantle it, look at the pieces, name them, identify them. How does it work? What makes it go? Figure that out first.

Then can I hang onto the railing while you push it around super fast and we can go flying out the sides due to centripetal force or whatever?

Yes, he says.

I told him I like playgrounds, and I know he remembered.

What of the newcomer? He seems to understand me patiently, tenderly, and with playfulness. That is ideal for me.

IV.

The whole point is that everyone needs time to adjust.

After a hurricane you will see the search and rescue team looking for dead people and trapped children and almost-dead-people. There are makeshift hospitals in gymnasiums and school buildings and people are preparing sack lunches. You give them something to eat.

Then there are crews that come to clear away the debris and the broken houses and the overflow of possessions and lost dogs and cement slabs blocking the roads.

And it starts to look better and better and better, but no one forgot.

Then there are the children chalking the sidewalks and the tennis courts, noticing that they haven't been to school in some time.

Soon the city will come back to life. A new life, it is not like before. Years later some see it as a blessing despite the difficulty. The wise ones.

To everything there is a life cycle. The butterfly does not demand to exit the cocoon before it is time.

And so the arms of my woundedness have let me out of our compact embrace, slowly and with care. I am inclined to think that though I have changed, it is more likely that my circumstances that have been rearranged. I did not earn the exit. It was not an award for achieving. There were reasons--some known to me and some yet to be uncovered. Some will remain hidden for a very long time.

I have been in each phase of the hurricane town, and I am old enough to remember them all.

What a gift, for I am my own municipal historian.

V.

What can you make with oranges, gingersnaps, toothpaste, limes, a notepad, and a baseball cap? Perhaps nothing you would like to eat.

It is a peculiar set of circumstances, and they are mine. I let the grocery list fly off of my fingers without a second thought. This is my superpower: liquidating synaptic thought as if it were a rollercoaster. Don't think so much. (It is also my downfall).

What's for dinner? And by dinner I mean the post-hurricane-town celebration that we're planning.

I will make a new list:

Paprika, excitement

Local Honey, comfort

Bleach, for purification

Potatoes, the right amount of boring

Granulated Sugar, affection

Cherries, girlhood

Honeycrisp Apples, excellence

Avocados, patience

Whole Carrots, rooted and dependable

and Blue Bunny Super Chunky Cookie Dough Ice Cream, to share.