It was just another day – in another week – and another knot in the rope of the errands that has no beginning and has no end. As she gripped a little tighter, leaned a little heavier on the handle of the grocery cart, she heard a voice say ‘Welcome…’

It was the disembodied voice of domestic platitude — timeless in age, feminine in tone. It spoke with guiding calm — gentle yet directive – just loud enough for those who need to hear it and soft enough to be ignored by those who chose not to. She found it comforting –as though she wasn’t alone.

‘This is a good idea’ the voice said – when she gazed down aisle number four, devoted to all things pasta …’But what kind?’ She said — growing anxious — doubting her ability to make the right connection of shape to sauce… Perfection was a pressure she did not bear well. Her throat constricted and mouth grew dry — despite all the promises of ripe tomatoes, aged cheeses, rustic flavors and secret recipes. And then even under the flaying exposure of fluorescent lights, she felt the tug of vague memories — of food and cooking – but she couldn’t hold onto the thought + feeling, any longer than a shallow breath before it evaporated in the haze of things remembered, things forgotten…but she didn’t want to forget.

She thought of smiling and maybe she did when she heard the answer from the voice she was looking for say ‘Make rigatoni with convenient home-made, already cooked meatballs found in the deli section…it’ll save you time and give you more time with the entire family…’ ‘Thank you’ she said to the voice. ‘You’re welcome’ she thought she heard over the muzak of lives surrendered to the inertia of getting the shopping, the cooking, the washing, the carpooling done.

Then calling to her from the produce section — she heard ‘Apples… aren’t just red and delicious any more...tickle your fancy – and your taste buds – with our juicy varieties of Cameos, Fuji and tantalizing Pink Ladies…’

Pink Ladies? She’d never had a Pink Lady before…They were in the corner, off the side – closer to the pears than the Granny Smiths. She picked one up – it was subtle, streaked with rouge and chartreuse. At first it was cold, but it quickly warmed in her hands and the wax veneer that’s meant to keep it pretty + protected turned greasy and melted away. She smelled it for the first time. ‘How far away and from how long ago did it take that apple to end up here?’ She wondered … and how many times had she walked right by them – never seeing, never even noticing? ….The gift was, that she finally did.

She took a bite, juice dripped and she got a little sticky.

‘Thank you’ she said and heard ‘You’re welcome.’