it might be coming to this
by Maya Stein
I feel the need to apologize to the avocados, the ones I haven’t put in my cart. The ones too far gone, their skin leathered and sunken. There are tables in restaurants I would sit at if they were just a little further from the exit. I gaze at them with soft-lidded eyes, doleful about their circumstance. In a bookstore, any choice seems cold and ruthless, pitting neighbor against neighbor. Certain days, the pile of clean socks is a dare to pick favorites, and we know how that kind of contest ends. It might be coming to this, the feeling of clinging to some lingering light from an old world, trying to eke out whatever tenderness remains.
But then an errant back wheel nearly swivels me into a stack of French baguettes. And at the entrance of the cafe, a couple leans meaningfully into their espressos, unmindful of the swinging door. And from behind a counter, the bookseller hears the tinkle of the shop bell and looks up, and waves. And one morning, it’s warm enough for flip-flops.
Maybe the old world isn’t disappearing. Maybe the light is coming in instead of receding. Maybe there are no favorites, or everything is a favorite to someone. Maybe tenderness is what happens when you open your eyes all the way.
Posted with kind permission of Maya Stein
