I saw them in the aisle between the cereal and the flour

I saw them in the aisle between the cereal and the flour

and for a moment I couldn't remember how to move.

I had practiced this. Months of practicing.

I had the words arranged in the right order.

I had considered their face, their possible response,

the exact angle of my body and the tone

I would use to say I'm sorry.

I had rehearsed it so many times it became real to me,

more real than this moment, than standing

three feet away with a basket in my hand.

They looked up. I made eye contact. And then

I nodded—just a small movement, like we'd agreed

on something—and I moved past them toward the checkout.

The words stayed in my mouth like a stone.

They tasted like old pennies. Like copper and time.

I'll probably never say them now.

The moment for rehearsal is over.

The moment for speaking is gone.

And I'm left carrying this thing I prepared

so carefully, holding it like a secret

that only I will ever know I kept.