One minute I was standing in the produce department comparing the prices of seasonal fruit. The next I was sitting in the middle of the cereal aisle surrounded by boxes of honey and oat GoldieOs, rolling blueberries, and uniformed personnel.
The time between these events was a blur. I remembered pushing my cart out of the produce section to the dairy display and stopping in front of an unending sea of yogurt. Incapable of deciding what I wanted, I gripped the handle so tightly my knuckles whitened.
Once a person who weighed her options and made calm rational choices, I was unprepared for this recent version of myself, someone for whom the smallest decisions had become monumental. Should I get out of bed and face the day or crawl back under the covers and wait for nightfall? Did I want to wear sandals or tennis shoes? And now, would it be Greek or regular? Despite the cool air emanating from the refrigerated shelves, beads of sweat gathered at the base of my neck. I backed away from the counter and cut my cart hard to the right, speeding toward the wine section.
I was so fixed on the gleaming oasis of deep reds and pristine whites and bubbly pinks that I failed to notice the giant cardboard honeybee perched atop neatly stacked boxes in the middle of the aisle. If it had been any other cereal, even any other variety, I might not have lost it, might have made it safely to the checkout line. But those little golden oats, coated with tiny droplets of honey, glazed me with a thick haze of despair that quickly morphed into rage. My next moment of clarity was staring up at the round, flushed face of the store manager.
“Please, Ma’am.” His voice drifted toward me as if from a great distance. “Are you able to get up or should I call someone?”
Faced with another impossible decision, I could only shake my head before grabbing one of the cereal boxes and crushing it against my chest.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I said, still clutching the box as I scrambled to my feet. “It’s just that I forgot the cereal. It was the only thing he asked for, and I forgot it. So, I really need to get home, so he won’t have to….”
But I couldn’t recall what he wouldn’t have to do. I did, however, remember there was no need for me to hurry home because there would be no husband waiting for me. That husband was dead, and I was the reason he was gone.
Katherine Nichols Author 