The Throat

The song came through the speakers

and I went very still.

My hand was holding the cereal box—

some brand I don't usually buy,

something I grabbed without looking—

and I couldn't put it down.

The song was the one from junior year.

I knew it before I recognized it,

my body knew it,

my throat knew it,

tightened up like a fist.

I read the nutrition label.

Calories. Fiber. Iron.

I read it again.

The numbers wouldn't hold still.

I read it a third time

and they finally stayed put.

Around me, people were moving,

selecting their things,

living in a world

where songs from high school

don't stop them cold

in the cereal aisle,

where they can carry

what they need to carry

without their hands

going white.

The song ended.

I was still holding the box.

My throat was still a fist.

I swallowed.

The cereal went into my basket.

I kept moving.

This is what we do instead.

We read labels we don't care about.

We swallow the thing we can't say.

We become people who know

exactly how much fiber

is in a bowl of bran,

and nothing

about the song,

or the year it was,

or what we were protecting

by not letting go.