She Repeated It Slower

She greeted me in Spanish at the grocery store,

her face bright like she'd known me before.

Three years in her classroom, conjugations and verbs,

and I stood there frozen like I'd never heard.

She slowed it down. Repeated the phrase.

I felt the heat climbing into my face.

I answered in English, apologized too,

standing under those lights like I hadn't a clue.

The cereal box—Lucky Charms—in my hand,

something I didn't want, never had planned.

She was kind about it. That made it worse.

Like she understood I was carrying a curse.

I put the box back. Walked out the door.

Paid for that language. I don't use it anymore.