The Song

The opening note comes through the speakers

in aisle three—frozen foods—

and I know it immediately.

That's the problem.

My cart is half full.

Milk. Bread. The things

that make a dinner

that doesn't feel like eating alone.

I left it there.

Just abandoned it

between the peas and the ice cream.

Outside, the parking lot is too bright.

I'm standing next to a car

with expired tags

and I'm not sure

how I got here

or when I started running.

It was a good song once.

Before it became what it means now.

Before it got tied to a person

I can't think about

without feeling something

inside my ribs

trying to get out.

I could go back in.

Be normal about it.

Pick up my cart.

Listen to the song in aisle three.

Pretend I'm fine.

But I'm standing here

in the parking lot

of a grocery store

I've been shopping at for three years

and I'm not going back in

until that song stops,

until it's safe,

until I can pretend

that the milk matters more

than the fact that I can't unhear it,

can't untie what's been tied to it,

can't make it about anything

except the person

it's always been about.

My hands are shaking.

I'm still standing here.

The song is probably ending now.

But I can still hear it,

faintly,

from inside,

like it's following me,

like it knows

I'm never going to be able

to shop in this store again

without remembering

that I left my cart

and ran

the moment it started.