I checked out
six years ago. Long before my mother
had checked out too.
For me (I cannot speak for her) it was like standing in line at the register,
the one with a slow cashier.
There was a moment
-a moment , the importance of which I did not understand.
What’s a moment
after all? I made the choice and chose
the wrong line.
The slow line.
The line where the person behind me spurned
the notion of personal space
and had a cold
and was coughing
and didn’t know,
to cover her mouth
nor turn her head.
And she wanted me to move
ahead, out of her way.
So she pressed and pressed against the barrier I thought I built
around myself but dropped the day I was born
to my mother who checked out long before anyone, other than me,
So I stood in her-
not my mother’s but the woman’s standing behind me
Small liquid droplets
shot forth from her red,
pushing me forward into a direction
I thought I had no choice but to go.
What I should have done was leave:
the cart in the aisle,
the million silly things I thought I needed to do.
I should have left it all
and walked away.
But I did as I should.
I did as mother would
and checked out
six years ago.