Before School

She was buying wine at 4 PM

with makeup that had separated

under her eyes, dark in the creases,

and she was struggling with the cart,

the kind with the wobbly wheel

that screams against the floor.

I recognized her from junior year—

Mrs. Chen, the one who taught us

that literature meant something,

that we could find ourselves

in the margins of other people's stories.

She looked at me

and I saw her remember

that she used to be the kind of person

who mattered to teenagers.

Now she was just tired.

The wine was just wine.

The cart was just a cart

that wouldn't cooperate.

I wanted to help.

I wanted to say something

that would make her feel less small

in the fluorescent aisle.

But what I was learning

was that you can't rescue

the people you've already made

into symbols.

Once they're monuments,

you can only watch them

deteriorate.

I left her there

and went to find what I came for.

I didn't look back.

I never look back.