“These are vine ripened, so I splurge a little,” Emily said, bringing the plump tomato to her nose and inhaling. “I try to buy things in season.” She glanced into my almost empty cart. So far, I’d accumulated milk, yogurt, several frozen dinners, and bread.
“My son Rob’s away at college,” I said, sequestering a head of romaine lettuce and stuffing it into a plastic bag. “It doesn’t seem worth the bother to cook a whole meal just for me.”
“Less cooking must give you more time to draw. Have you been keeping up with your sketching?”
I bagged a handful of carrots, bending the crinkly leaves back so they would fit in. “Only twice. It’s hard for me to get much done at home. I’m always so busy.”
“That’s understandable,” she said with sympathy. “The world is such a hectic place.” She slowed her cart and gazed up at me. “A lot of women put their personal goals on the back burner until their children are out of the house.”
“You’re right. Now that my only child Rob’s in college, I can’t use him as an excuse anymore.”
A woman with a toddler in her cart strolled by. In a cooing voice, she spoke to the little boy, then offered him an animal cracker. I stood for a moment watching him gnaw on the cracker and then give his mother a toothy grin.
Averting my eyes, I started testing avocados for softness. I felt as though I were suspended in limbo, as if the tide were about to change, but in the meantime I was going nowhere.
“I need to start filling my days more constructively,” I said, then placed an avocado into my cart, even though I’d been told they were fattening.
“You will. Give yourself time.” Emily’s sigh glided down through an octave. “Isn’t it funny? First our children crawl away from us, then walk away, then drive away—then off they rush into the world.” One hand patted her heart. “I remember how hard it was to let go, particularly of my last one. I must have cried for a month.” She gave her cart a short push. “I bumped around the empty house like a zombie. The worst year of my life.” Her smile returned, but her eyes were moist. “I finally joined a weaving group. At first I used it to fill my empty days. Then the pleasure of weaving became the end.”
“I may have missed my chance.” I spoke softly, my words catching in my throat. “As I mentioned, I studied art in college.” I swiped at my nose with the back of my hand. “But as soon as I graduated, my painting screeched to a halt. You should see the pathetic drawing I did of my dog the other day.”
“Don’t be too hard on yourself.” She touched my arm in a gentle way that showed she cared. “Like being a mother, art is a nurturing process. Not all my new creations are pretty, but I don’t look at them as failures, but rather stepping stones to my next project.”
“It’s embarrassing,” I said, unsure why I’d chosen her to be my confidant. “I can barely bring myself to draw in class.”
“I’m sure you’ll get over that with time.” We reached the checkout counter. “Hello, Janice,” Emily said to the cashier.
I got in line behind Emily and watched the checker double-bag her selections, then load the bags into the cart.
Emily turned to me. “So nice to run into you,” she said. “Sorry if I slowed you down, dear. I don’t walk as fast as I used to.”
“I didn’t mind, I enjoyed our conversation.” Very much.
“And by the way,” she said. “My youngest child’s thirty-two now, and has his own kids. If you think your son was a joy, wait until you have grandchildren.”
When I got home, I gobbled several cookies as I stowed the groceries. I folded the paper bags and stuffed them in the drawer. I needed to get ready for work, but noticed my smaller drawing pad, which I opened to my cloud sketch. Not bad, I thought, but I noted an area needing more definition. I erased a few lines and reworked them, only to find the drawing looked worse. I erased again, removing the top layer of paper and leaving a smudgy surface. Ready to scream, I reminded myself it was only an exercise and not a big deal. I patiently attempted to redo that spot. Completed, it looked too polished compared to the rest of the work. In thirty minutes, I’d changed my spirited sky to boring mediocrity.
Visiting my childhood home always made me feel eight years old again. Which wasn’t all bad. My father answered the door with the sports section of the Sunday paper in his hand. As I crossed the threshold, he greeted me with a firm one-armed hug and a peck on the cheek.
“How’s my girl?” he asked.
“Fine, Daddy.” Gee, I thought I stopped calling him that decades ago.
“That’s good.” Then he headed into the living room where the TV droned.
I watched him shuffle across the shag carpet toward his easy chair. Once a tall man, his drooping shoulders and ample waistline made him seem shorter. In his younger days he could bench press 250 pounds, but these past few years I’d stopped asking him to carry things for me. His strength was waning.
I glanced into the glass-fronted cabinet standing in the front hall and spotted the Venetian glass paperweight containing purple-and-red swirled flowers I’d coveted as a child. When young, my little sister, Nicole, and I devised secret pacts deciding who would inherit what when our parents died, an occurrence that seemed a hundred years away to two young girls.
The succulent bouquet of pot roast filled my nostrils. I followed the thick aroma to the kitchen to find my mother mashing potatoes at the counter. The room looked the same as
