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“Red moon,” he said,

his two-year-old hand reaching for mine

in the dark. 

As urgently as my granddaughter

grabbed my arm, earlier that day. 

For her, it was the return

of the hummingbirds.

She’d spotted a female

resting on a high branch,

a potential mate preening

his feathers nearby.

Our clothesline, his stage.

Then . . . a flash

of iridescent red,

high-pitched squeaks,

beating wings that

skirted our hair.

Breathlessness

as abandoned homework

                                            danced

                                                                                 on a breeze.

We chased it, laughing.

If not for children

reminding us to be present,

how many miracles of life

would be overlooked?

The insect in a daylily.

Shadows in the woods.

The beauty of a half-dead 

Japanese maple tree

clinging to life.

Its unfurling apple-peel like leaves

shimmering in the sun.

Do our heads always need to be down?

Our brains wired and ready

for instant response

to Facebook notifications,

e-mails, texts, twitter updates?

Look. Up.

Find beauty.

Give a child your full,

undivided attention.

And so we set aside homework

to wonder at hummingbirds.

Delayed bedtime

to gaze at a brilliant full moon,

shrouded in a milky

red-and-blue veil.

“Look, Grandma!” he said,

his small hand swallowed

in mine.

Clouds shifted; the moon disappeared.

But not the moment.

The moment of just

being.

He ran down the driveway.

“Moon is gone! GONE!”

I raced after him,

swept him into my arms,

guided his tiny arm toward the sky.

“Watch and wait,” I whispered.

Together, we silently anticipated–

not a ding or a chirp or a tweet—

but the reappearance

of an unreachable golden ball

nestled in the night sky.

A ball my grandson called “Red Moon.”

Yes, we need to be brave

in our writing,

but we must also seek the courage

to be present.

Ever since my recent Unavoidable/Terrifying Deer Encounter, driving the grandkids in the car has taken on new meaning. Technically, I am using my husband’s Nissan truck since my accordion of a car is parked in an auto body repair lot. Strips of its frame lay in a pile on the gravel. We will not be reunited for weeks.

I was ten miles from home after a glorious writing weekend spent on Squam Lake when a relative of Bambi’s shot out of the woods and directly into the path of my Honda CRV. Its doe had just safely crossed the busy highway, thanks to a number of cars and trucks swerving to avoid hitting it.

A split-second later, all you can do is cry. You can’t change what happened, though you wish you could.  And then the memory of your sister, at the age of five, flashes before you. We’d been at a movie theatre watching Bambi when she got out of her seat and walked down the aisle, pointing her finger at the large screen. “Your mother is dead,” she said, as if Bambi didn’t realize.

I love animals, which is why I wanted to rescue the doe, express my sorrow for being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and then find some nice person to adopt it. And when I explained this to the state trooper, he nicely asked me to remain seated, and then reiterated how lucky I was. The scene was ripe for a multi-car accident, and if my hood had not folded, the mother deer would have flown through my windshield.

I am alive.

I am grateful.

But I still think about the deer. I think about the doe. So I’ve convinced myself that the baby is safe in some field, chasing after butterflies, and does not require years of therapy. My seven-year-old granddaughter told me that the buck found the doe, and is now taking care of it. “Grandma, the baby is fine. You just have to stop hitting deer with your car.”

“One deer, Ava.” I hold up a finger. “I hit one deer, which I couldn’t avoid.”

And this is why our car routine has changed.

Today, I buckle my twenty-month-old grandson in his car seat.  Ava pulls her chest strap tight. “Okay, it’s really tight. I’ll be safe.”

Landon takes his train in and out of his cup holder. “Choo-choo-choo-choo.”

Five minutes later we are on the highway, and Landon is trying to get Ava’s attention. “Dah, dah, dah . . .”

“Ava, why aren’t you answering Landon?”

“Because I don’t understand what he’s saying, and I’m too busy to talk to him,” she says. “I have more important work.”

I glance toward the back. Ava is watching the scenery flash past her.

“What work?” I ask.

“I am The Deer Watcher.”

“Truuuck!” shouts Landon, pointing at a moving van. “Truuuck!”

Everything is a truck. Cars are trucks, buses are trucks, and bicycles are trucks.  Except our cat. Our cat, according to Landon, is a “Doggie.”

“DEER!” Ava screams.

I lift my foot off the gas pedal, position above the brake. I scan the road; my heart is in my throat.

“Grandma, DEER!” she yells again.

“TRUCCKKK!” shouts Landon.

“WHERE!” I say.

“Way up there, on the hill.”

“Those deer are in no danger of being hit by me.”

“How do you know?” Ava asks. “There are babies up there.”

I put my foot on the gas. We get off the highway and drive to Panera Bread. (Before my eldest daughter calls me out, I will admit that, on occasion, I might suggest that the grandkids beg me to take them to Panera, while I am a Panera Smoothie Addict.)

I order macaroni and cheese for Landon, chicken noodle soup for Ava, and a mango smoothie for me.

Landon drives his train through the macaroni while Ava and I discuss how The Deer Watcher doesn’t want to be The Screamer Who Gives Grandma An Anxiety Attack.

Here is what we come up with:

AVA’S SAVE A DEER PLAN

1. Ava is in charge of watching for deer.
2. Ava points deer out to Grandma when they are standing by the edge of the highway, not up on a hill, so far away that Grandma needs glasses to see the deer.
3. Avoid highways when we can take a scenic route instead.
4. Don’t scream “DEER” in the car as a joke. Grandma says that is not funny.

But in a way it is.  Humor is what gets us through the tough times.

What a wonderful, wonderful life.

This past week I’ve had lessons in letting go.

I said goodbye to our beloved sheltie.

I said goodbye to one of our cats.

I let my YA novel leave my hands to allow it to become what the world needs it to be.

I let go.

I let go out of love.

Stories whisper to us when to step away, that we have done our job to the best of our ability.

Pets trust us to do what is humane when the time comes, to keep them from entering the place where suffering defines their existence.

It doesn’t make loss any easier.

And when you’ve spent hours revising and revising your work while being a pet caregiver, the related behaviors remain. Long after the heart accepts the loss.

I still automatically rise at 5 to check on the dog. I dismantle the alarm, then unlock the door to let him out.

Except he’s not here.

It’s all gone: His bowls, chew toys, squeaking squirrel. His dog beds, food, medicines. Shampoo, leashes. Pill organizers. His bark, the pitter-patter of his feet. The sound of him plopping beside me. His sigh.

His beautiful, beautiful face.

But not his collar, and his green alien boy, he loved so much.

Our one cat that remains hides beneath the kitchen table, curled in a chair pushed flush to the table. What must be going through her head?

Then I remember. We would not know loss if we never loved. And to love and be loved is a gift.

And so I feed the cat, and then settle on our porch to wait for the sun.

I notice my grandson’s blue hippo in our yard, which he sits on when there is nothing better to do than sit on one’s hippo and wonder at the world.

The cement step is cold against my thighs. A hummingbird whizzes over my head.

A hint of pink peers through our trees.

Another day begins.

I hear her spring to the floor, her red tag clink against her collar, and I know she is ready.

I am, too.

She meows through the screen, and I come inside. Walk down the hallway to my writing room.

I open the door.

I sit.

I open the YA document out of habit. I close it, and pat the place next to me.

Terrapin jumps up, nudges my hand.

I write.

I write out of love.

I write about a dog.

I decided to repost this from two years ago because it involves the love of a father for a son. This experience from the toy store reminds me that gifts do not always come wrapped in pretty paper with spiral ribbon. They sometimes come in the shape of stories. This story was a gift I received, and one I will treasure as long as I live. Happy Father’s Day!

A WHALE FOR STEVEN

                                                    by Betsy Devany

 Closing time has come and gone at Olde Mistick Village, the sidewalks are filled with more ducks than people shopping. The neighboring stores are dark, their doors locked, and their employees on their way home. It is time for me to call it a night.

       The marionettes swing in the breeze; the pink flamingo seems to wink at me. I gather the puppets outside to carry them into the store. Behind me there is quacking. The three ducks who rule our front yard are on alert. The white leader honks at a lone male that slipped under the fence and entered their territory. The leader’s two sidekicks join in the chase, nipping at the uninvited younger mallard. The white duck pecks at the intruder’s neck; his wings flap with agitation.  I move towards the gang of birds, clapping my hands until they separate.

       “Do you break up fights every day?”An older man walks in my direction, followed by a younger man. With the same chiseled chins, the two are clearly father and son.

       “This is the first fight I’ve seen today.”

       “You still open? We won’t be long, I promise.”

       “Uh . . . sure, yes, come on in.” I smile.

       “We need to hurry, Steven. This woman wants to close.”

       Steven, who looks to be in his late thirties, dashes into the store. “Whales, where are your whales?” His attention shifts rapidly from shelf to shelf. “I need a whale.” He looks up. He looks down. Lions are pulled from their shelves. Tigers. Bears. Cats. Dogs. None of the stuffed animals are right. Hoping to locate the whale he remembered having as a child, Steven continues to push toys aside. He mutters, “Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . . Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . .”

       “He’ll never find it, not the way his was, with the fabric worn around the tips of the eyes and the end of the tail from his constantly caressing it.” His father adds. “And the head was flat from Steven leaning into it, night after night, when he was a child.”

       Steven, who has traveled over an hour to get here, is missing more than just a stuffed whale from his childhood.

       We do not sell brown whales in the toy store, nor do we sell giant whales. The largest we have is a 24-inch white beluga whale. I hand Steven the beluga.  He brings it close to his nose, leans his cheek against it, and slides his face back and forth brushing the fabric. “Do you have a bigger whale . . . brown whale . . . filled with beans?”

       “No, we don’t, I’m sorry.” While I search for anything close to what he describes, Steven paces . . . and paces . . . and then he notices the three-foot lobster displayed on a high shelf above his head. He stands on his tiptoes and reaches for the stuffed sea creature. “This will do,” he says.

       “No, Steven, we’ve done this before.  You’re not thinking clearly.” The father takes the lobster away and leaves the beluga whale in his son’s arms. He sighs—a long sigh. His hair is grey and thin. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean. He sighs again, and then says to his son, “We’ve made these trips over and over again, from New York to Massachusetts, and to anywhere else that might hold the promise of a brown whale. Steven . . .  Steven, look at me, son.”

       Steven’s hold on the beluga whale loosens. I catch it before it hits the ground. “We have catalogs. Perhaps I can find a large enough whale for you,” I say and hand him back the beluga.

       The ends of the father’s mouth turn up, forced out of kind appreciation.  “That’s nice of you, but we’ve been looking for a very long time. I never know what he wants.”

       I head to the back stock room, grab six catalogs, and carry them to the front desk. Steven follows me, his arms clutching the beluga.

       “How big of a whale do you want?”  I ask.

       “Very big.” Steven focuses on his shoes while clinging to the toy. We go back and forth.  I flip through pages. He peers at pictures. “No, not right,” he tells me over, and over, and over again.

       His father stands next to him. “Steven, look at me.  Look at me, please.”  Finally, Steven lifts his eyes. “We aren’t going to find a whale. Not like your whale.”

       “I want a whale,” says Steven. “I want a big, brown whale with beans.”

       “Steven, we need to leave. This kind lady wants to go home.”

       “My whale, we came to get my whale,” Steven reminds his father.

       The father turns away from the counter and gently tugs at his son’s arm. Steven digs his heels in. Thirty minutes have passed since they first walked into the store.

       “Tell me about your whale,” I say.

       “He doesn’t know what he wants. I’ve been looking and looking—they just don’t make toys like they used to.” His father tugs again.

       “Steven, what did you love most about your whale?”

       Steven turns, looks at me, and walks back to the oak counter. He runs his hands along the wood.  “I liked the way the beans inside felt.”

       “They don’t make animals with those beans anymore. Too many safety concerns,” I say.

       Steven swirls his fingers around the shape of a large knot in the oak.

       His father sighs. “Thank you for trying, but he’ll never understand.”

       I arrange the pens next to the register; straighten the shopping bags. I glance in Steven’s direction. “Besides the beans, what else did you love about your whale?”

       “Soft, it was soft . . . I could sleep on it.”

       We have a two-foot penguin, but it is not soft.  We have large stuffed dogs, but they are not whales. We have a three-foot lion, but the color is tan, like a pale honey.

      Then I remember Gus. “I have a bear, a large bear,” I tell him. “And it’s brown.”

       Steven studies the floor. “I want a whale. I need to bring a whale home tonight.”

       The three of us stand in silence. I check the time. The owners must be wondering why I haven’t called with the day’s sales.

       “Let me show you the bear,” I say.

       “It’s hopeless. We’ve kept you long enough,” the father says.

       “I’ll be right back.” From the stuffed animal room, I carry the three-foot floppy bear to the front desk. Gus has lived in the store for quite some time now. Before I close up at night, he gets an extra pat.

       “He’s very soft,” I tell Steven. 

       “It’s not a whale.”

       Now, I am the one studying my shoes. “I won’t be able to find you a large whale tonight.  Just hold the bear, see what you think.  He’s brown and soft. You can lean into him.”  I hand Steven the bear.  

       He pushes his nose against Gus.  He plops Gus against the counter and leans into him. “He is soft. I like him.”

       “Yes, I like this bear myself—very much.”

       The father pulls at the price tag. “The bear is $130. You didn’t bring enough money.”

       Silence returns.  I shift the catalogs together and form a single stack, place them on the floor.

       The father stares at the door.  Steven’s face is buried into Gus’s fur. 

       I want to buy him the bear, show him he can love Gus as much as the whale.  I want to watch him walk down the sidewalk with the bear in his arms, even though it’s always hard when I let go of a stuffed animal I’ve grown attached to, but Steven did not bring enough money.

      Then, holding the bear tightly in one arm, Steven reaches into his pants pocket.  He removes a black leather wallet, worn with holes visible at every corner. It is a wonder the wallet doesn’t explode all over our wooden floor. A penny pokes through one end, but does not fall out. His wallet is thick with papers, some yellowed, some coated in a worn plastic. There is almost five inches thick of paper memories.

       His father settles into a stance; feet spread apart, firmly planted on the wooden floor—a familiar routine, I imagine. His hands out of his pockets, he turns his palms upward, as if waiting at a communion rail.

       Steven pops the wallet open and forms the shape into what appears to be a triangular leather cup. “I want the bear,” he says. 

       “Let’s count,” says his father.

       Steven places two twenties on our wooden counter, then another crumpled twenty.

       “How much is that,” asks his father.

       “Sixty,” says Steven with confidence.

       I separate the bills. “Eighty, you have eighty dollars here.”

       Steven pulls out a five and a ten—ninety-five. When he stretches the leather further, the penny falls to the floor, where it remains. Next, come the one-dollar bills, all carefully folded into triangles, the points as worn as the wallet.

       “One. Two.  Three,” he counts.

       There is something magical about the wallet, which is not diminishing in size.  Instead of pulling rabbits from a magician’s hat, he conjures up one-dollar bills out of faded leather. How does the wallet hold all of the tightly folded shapes?  I expect him to run out of money, yet Steven continues to hand another and another dollar bill to his father, never looking up or breaking his rhythm. Not once.

       His father unfolds and flattens each bill, using a quarter to work out the creases.

       The stack of money on the counter grows higher.

       I wait and watch.  “Why do you fold the dollar bills into triangles?” 

       Holding one bill in his hand, Steven lifts it to the corner of his right eye. “When I’m sad . . . this makes me feel better.”  He taps the edge of the triangular shape against his skin. Three times. He passes the bill to his father.

       “May I ask what Steven has?”

       The father talks and talks and talks, like a dam overflowing. Like a man who hasn’t been noticed in years.

       I cannot tell you what the father was wearing that day, but I can tell you his words—his story. I can describe the medicine bottle he has carried in his pocket from the seventies, day after day, year after year. The label so worn that it barely reveals the name of the pharmacy. Except for the lingering chalky stink of medicine, the bottle remains empty. The father rolls the medicine bottle between his palms as he tells me that the colored dye in the medicine, administered when Steven was a baby, caused a cerebral allergic reaction. Steven has two markers of autism, and some mental retardation. Years later, they learned that the damage was irreparable—long after Steven’s mother left, taking his brother and sister with him. Steven was six years old at the time. The mother changed her last name, never contacting Steven and his father.

       The father talks and talks while Steven continues to pull one-dollar bills from his wallet. He earns $100 per month, emptying trash containers at a pharmaceutical company.

       “You really love that wallet,” I say.

       Steven nods, eyes still downcast, his larger lip protruding over his top lip—almost swollen looking.

       “When did Steven lose his whale?  Do you have a picture?”  I ask the two men, one talking and talking, the other pulling triangles of money from a worn leather wallet.

       His father quickly shakes his head.  “No, not with us; it upsets him.”

       “It makes me sad,” adds Steven.  He taps the corner of his right eye with another folded dollar bill.

       “How long ago did he lose this whale,” I ask.

       “Six, he was six years old,” his father says.

       I lose count of the money on the counter; imagine Steven as a six-year-old boy snuggled against his mother, the whale by his side until the two of them banished at the same time. Is his search for a whale or a mother who abandoned him?

       “You only have $128. Are you sure this is what you want?” the father asks.

       Steven hugs the bear to his chest. Gus’s feet dangle at his knees. “I want the bear. It’s a soft bear.”

       “You don’t have enough money,” his father tells him.

       Steven opens his wallet. He peers into it, pulls out the yellowed papers. 

       The magic is gone.

       “I . . . I can—give you 10% off.”

       “You don’t have to do that,” the father says.

       “Yes, I do.” I smile and ring up the sale, recount the money and hand him $4 change. I make a mental note to pay the difference after they leave. Steven immediately folds the dollar bills into triangles before tucking them into his wallet.

       “I hope the bear makes him happy.” The father strokes Gus’s arms. “I never see any emotion from him anymore, he’s on so much medicine; it numbs his emotions, his personality. At least he doesn’t scream and cry like he used to. But he never laughs or smiles, either.”

       “I’m hungry,” Steven says.

       “What do you feel like eating?” I ask.

       “Steak!” 

       I give the father directions to a nearby restaurant and recommend they walk through the village so they can stop at the pond to admire the newly hatched baby ducks. 

       “I have to put my bear in the car first, so he’s safe,” says Steven. 

       The two men step outside the store. I bend over to unlatch the door in preparation for closing, and as I do, Steven turns to me and smiles, revealing slightly yellowed teeth.

       “You have a beautiful smile,” I say.

       The ends of Steven’s mouth turn up even more. Now his father grins. “I haven’t seen him smile is such a long time. It is worth more than the cost of the bear, more than the time in the car and the price of gas.”

       “I hope your search is over. How long has he been hunting for the whale?” I ask.

       “Thirty years, just Steven and me, we’ve been looking for thirty years.”

       Steven’s smile is broad. He is thirty-six years old and no longer fixated on his shoes.

       “Thank you for listening,” the father says. “Thank you for allowing me to go on and on.”

       “That’s what I am here for. Have a nice night.”

       If  I could, I would have found them a large brown whale filled with beans. But all I found was a bear named Gus, and for once, it seemed to be enough.

Growing up in the Devany family, I was beholden to my mother’s Look Beyond Yourself Birthday Tradition, which stemmed from her philosophy to always think about other people. On their one special day in the year, the birthday child had to buy (or make) gifts for their siblings. In my case, there were three. Grabbing anything off a shelf was not allowed, she wanted us to think about what each person would really enjoy. It was a lot of pressure, and some years we tried to outdo one another.

My second birthday without my father was yesterday. Last year’s was tough. I had no desire to celebrate. I let the phone ring without answering. I spent hours alone by a reservoir, watching birds. My gifts sat on the table unopened. Not until I saw two great egrets, one landing high in a tree while the younger one fished, did I realize the problem. I’d been waiting for something. When the elder flew off, as if confident that the younger bird would be okay on its own, I knew.

I’d been waiting for my dad to call and wish me a happy birthday.

Yesterday, I rose early to write. I wrote for four hours, my way of connecting with my father on the day I long for him the most. Then I thought about my mother’s birthday tradition. I looked beyond myself and discovered what makes a birthday joyous are simple, unexpected moments. When you find yourself cheering for others on your special day, and moments like these:

The hummingbirds returned.

A momma bird laid her final egg in a nest atop our porch fan. My seven-year-old granddaughter made a sign, warning everyone to Not Turn on the Fan because babies are sleeping.

Ava and I wandered your yard, searching for hidden beauty. Both of us with cameras. She discovered tulips, which I don’t recall planting.

An overwhelming number of people wished me a happy birthday, which meant so much to me. Truly, I can’t thank you enough.

My eldest daughter scored a 97 in her nursing exam.

My youngest daughter was invited to teach at the prestigious Gathering 2013 for Paul Mitchell as an educator.

We saved a bumblebee that was trapped in our window.

Ava’s excitement over spotting birds in our yard—cardinals, yellow finch, hawks.

Gorgeous sunrise at the start of the day.

To be captured by a child’s wonder. “Grandma! Look how blue that flower is!”

The day ended with a wonderful Italian dinner out with my family. I returned home with my husband to find colored pencils strewn across our living room table, and a picture, Ava had made. Perhaps she knew what I’d wished for earlier that day when she picked up a dandelion. My greatest treasures are handmade by small hands with the purest of love.

“Grandma, do you know this is a wishing flower?” she had whispered, as if she held magic in her hands.

“It is?”

“Yes,” she said, holding it to my lips. “Make a birthday wish.”

Sometimes, wishes do come true.

Don’t rely on your cell phone to determine the actual time in Boise because you will wake up to:

1. Read the time as 7:25 a.m. on your phone.

2. Panic because the girls need to be awake by 7 a.m. for school.

3. PANIC because you have failed your sister on your first day of being in charge of the twins.

4. Turn on the lights in the girls’ bedroom, then yell, “We’re late, we’re late! Get up, get dressed. HURRY!”  

5. Be unprepared for the madness that will ensue, which will include crashing into one another as all three people simultaneously rush for the bathroom, after which  there will be tripping, scrambling for shoes and socks, and then the dog will get involved by barking incessantly.  

6. Suddenly remember—in your state of being half asleep and somewhat disoriented—that you haven’t figured how to temporarily change your cell phone’s clock (the only clock in your room, and to your knowledge, the only clock in that level of the house) to reflect the local time of 5:30 a.m.

7. Inform your nieces that maybe the time is earlier than you thought, and isn’t it a good thing they aren’t going to miss their ride and be late to school!

8. Laugh.

9. Realize you are the only person laughing at 5:30 a.m. Barking does not count.

10. Ask your niece to—just in case—check the time.  “Are you kidding, Aunt Betsy!” says the one niece after finding her watch that was hidden under a pile of school papers on her desk.

11. Second niece says, “Now what do we do? We’re dressed for school.”

12. Aunt says, sleepily, “Everybody, go back to bed, including the dog.”

Don’t Forget About the Automatic Sprinklers

1. If you happen to wake up early in a panic over the girls being late for school (and it is actually only 5:30 in the morning in Boise), at least grab the morning paper—the paper your sister asked you to save so she and her husband can read when they return in a week.

2. If instead you fall back asleep (after waking at 5:30 a.m.) and don’t pick up the morning paper before the sprinklers turn on, and the newspaper kid hasn’t put the paper in a plastic bag, so that it gets thoroughly soaked, consider # 3.

3. Bribery

With upcoming plans to visit my ailing father, who lives in Chapel Hill, I’ve been worried—and feeling a bit guilty—about leaving the toy store in the middle of the busy summer season. To compensate for being gone, and to starve my guilt, I’ve put in extra hours, which is why I agree to open the store on Friday–a last minute request. I arrive without eating breakfast, and do not pack a lunch or snacks. If all goes well, two employees will arrive around noon.

At 12:30, I am free to go, I write myself out on my timecard and then head outside, accompanied by my rumbling stomach. Suddenly a thud . . . thud . . . thud captures my attention. The Fed Ex guy is unloading large boxes from his truck onto a not-so-small metal dolly.

I hit the button to unlock my car.

Thud . . . thud . . . thud!

Grumble, grumble, grumble goes my stomach.

I dare to look back. The dolly is piled so high, I can no longer see the Fed Ex guy, though I hear him grunt. I hit the remote to lock my car, and then walk back across the parking lot to follow a hunch. Across the numerous boxes are manufacturer names in bold print: Bruder, Creative Education, Harper Collins, Crocodile Creek and Madame Alexander. I know what this means.

“Are these boxes for the Toy Soldier?” I ask.

“All of what’s on this dolly, plus there’s still more big ones in the truck.”

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Nagging guilt settles in. Nag. Nag. Nag.

I stare longingly back at my car, but my feet don’t move. The owner is alone with a relatively new employee, who I have been training. Groups of people walk into the store. Customers walk out carrying red bags. A young boy plays with his newly purchased popgun. Pop! Pop! Pop!

 If I’ve waited this long to eat, what’s a few more hours? A man walks by, ripping a piece of powdered fried dough and I start to follow him, really it is the dough I am after. Then, visions of turkey and cheese with avocado wrapped neatly in a tortilla come to mind, as does lemonade, freshly made, and—

Thump-thumpity-thump. Here comes the darn dolly. I dash ahead of it, run into the store, cross through the 12:30 departure time on my time card, and then tie my apron back around my neck.

“What are you doing, I thought you—”

“Don’t ask,” I tell the owner.

“Did you forget something?”

“N