Sheri Coudron Ayaquica

As a student I worked as a cashier at a local retail store
a quiet senior citizen named Evelyn worked there, too.
She would dislodge carts from each other,
welcoming each customer with her quiet presence and an untethered cart.
There was so much movement in the store, constant bustling, rushing, urging forward.
One day
a child and his mother entered
The boy’s eyes lit up when he saw Evelyn’s small figure
he rushed toward her, arms spread wide, face alight
“Grandma! Grandma Peale!”
Evelyn navigated her balance with his sudden force, extended a gentle hug, patted his back.
Within the same instant the child’s mother,
Rushing, unhesitatingly, directly
“No.That’s Not Grandma Peale. Grandma Peale’s Dead. Remember? That’s Someone Else’s Grandma.”
Again Evelyn managed her balance.
Her soft eyes further softened.
“Sorry,” the mother said, proffered a glance in Evelyn’s direction
directed her child elsewhere,
continued hurrying.

Evelyn’s shoulders fell,
I thought I empathized,
I thought I understood:
No one wants to be confused with a dead person
Or be hastily, unexpectedly reminded that they, too, will die.
But my youth, my ignorance kept me from understanding the depth of her pain.
I put my unknowing hand on Evelyn’s slumped shoulder
Saw her tender eyes, where tears threatened to fall.
The mother and child were long gone, the unexpected sweet embrace too brief.
“That’s somebody else’s grandma” the mom had said
And now I remember Evelyn’s eyes, rimmed with tears,
The punch of a private pain suddenly disrobed in public, an unnamed loss.
Her quiet voice, her lowered head and slumped shoulders.
And Evelyn’s resigned words revealing
the strength of the punch the mother had unknowingly launched

Gentle Evelyn said
“I’m nobody else’s grandma.”

And everyone continued rushing.