To the Sadness Brought on by the Grocery Store

I’m picking over winter lettuce at 4 PM on a Sunday when I see the woman with a cart behind me trying to get by. I move my cart over and apologize. Her cart looks like a small car and one child is holding on to the fake steering wheel. Another is walking beside her. 

 

Because this is the front of the store, it’s clear they have just started their shop. The children aren’t happy to be here. They look tortured the way small children do when tasked with adult errands.

The woman says to me, as if she is William Carlos Williams:

You’re ok.

There’s just

so much sadness

brought on

by the grocery store.

And now that she has named it, the sadness is the grocery store.

All the children riding in the carts are singing. Not because they are happy; not lilting, cheery tunes. They all sound a little drunk, or at least tired. The store is filled with toddlers who did not nap today. Moms and dads have finally admitted the truth and need to get on with their lives, so they take the children to the store. They have weighed not having milk and chicken and laundry soap against the chore of shopping with a drunken baby and decided, oddly, it’s better to shop.

The sadness continues. The lettuce is thin. The avocados are hard. We are deep into February and freshness comes at a cost in Ohio.

The floor is muddy. The woman slicing meat at the deli counter is angry. She has been smiling since 10 AM and she is all smiled out. I ask for ham, shaved not sliced, and I know, no matter how she hands it to me, I will just take it and move on.

Lobsters rest at the bottom of a tank that looks like it was built by middle schoolers who decided the science fair was for losers. The steaks on sale are all sold out and the label on the discounted chicken says I should “Buy It ‘N’ Freeze It!” I consider finding the meat manager to suggest they go ahead and spell out the “and.”

When I get home, I will be too tired to cook. We make sandwiches with canned soup. The plates are too big and the bowls are too small.

The sadness. Brought on. By the grocery store.