One week before shutdown, the gaping mouths of
empty store shelves set my eyes ablaze. Items we normally have at our fingertips, elusive as dust. Pandemic continues and I duck it by turning online. Prices peak as panic sets in.
Don’t call it rationing. Too many memories, all of them bad.
Instead, signs cry, two per customer. Hundreds of us need our share. The grocery site can’t deliver for 5 days. The milk jug is empty. 6 feet apart, people snake around the grocery store lot waiting for admittance.
The world is upside down. They said two weeks two months ago. Sleep is a memory, while dreams are fierce. Sometimes, they walk during the day. I remember Grandma kept cash in her mattress, cookie jar, underwear drawer.
I need a stash in case the market crash is permanent.
The bankers won’t answer. I am a red light flashing on their old push-button phone. I pack plastic gloves and my last can of Lysol to make my withdrawal. I kiss my son goodbye and let the TV babysit him. He is afraid to be outside.
Dozens of cars got to the bank first. Dozens of hands pressed each key. I spray down the ATM before I take out my cash. I don’t want to go home with anything I didn’t come here with.
Essentials
Maria James-Thiaw
Maria James-Thiaw
Maria James-Thiaw
Maria James-Thiaw