sour Keys

Roshni Riar
Staff Writer

 

’m staring at my Papa’s brown, wrinkled face

and the way his tears catch the warm,
afternoon light. His bike is lying behind him
on the grass, handlebars twisted

like my guts. Mom is crying

beside me and I don't want to look

but I feel the force of her sobs reverberating
out onto the driveway. Papa’s feet shuffling

nervously on the porch, tiny flecks

of white paint chipping and turning to dust
beneath them. “T just wanted to drop

these off,” he says, voice thick

with remorse. I look at him, my father’s
father, and the tub of sour keys

from Giant Tiger shaking

in his grip. They haven't seen each other

since the divorce. “I know you both like
these,” he offers. Mom reaches

for them. I stare at the proximity

of their hands and the salty sugar separating

them. Now, they're hugging and crying,
and Papa is apologizing. He doesn’t say
what he’s sorry for but we know. Sour keys
drop to the porch. I make no move to catch

them, watching the candy roll
away from their intertwined limbs.

At the Grocery Store

Caroline Ho
Assistant Editor

 

Grocery store, five-thirty—it’s the perfect time of day
To find us nine-to-fivers in our post-work disarray
You've got your goods, now all that’s left is lining up to pay.

Which lane to choose? Each looks at least a dozen shoppers deep
I mill around confusedly, just another hapless sheep
Just pick one and stop dithering, you're looking like a creep.

With my basket flailing awkwardly, I shuffle in behind
Acart piled high with paper towel—the name-brand, fancy kind
Meanwhile, your budget limits you to the cheapest you can find.

Gosh, next to that, my basket’s full of such sad-looking fare
Like my off-brand “cream cheese product” and my one bruised, clearance pear
Come on, the cashier won't judge you. They're not paid enough to care.

But even worse than judgment—the dreaded small-talk at the till
Will they ask “How has your day been?” Now I'm terrified they will—
Stop freaking out, you loser. It’s a cashier. Please, just chill.

I'll smile and nod, say, “Fine, thanks,” I'll be pleasant, normal, bland
—Wait, what’s this loaf of bread? Oh, no, I grabbed the pricey brand?
Just say that you don’t want it. The cashier will understand.

But I can't just tell the cashier I don’t want it anymore
Just thinking of the awkwardness strikes dread within my core
Fine, buy the bread you can’t afford. See, this is why youre poor.

I don’t dare ask the cashier to return it to the shelf
Perhaps I should just go and put this bread loaf back myself
Just TAKE the nicer bread. It’s probably better for your health.

lll buy it. Fine. I know I can. My soul is resolute
The bread sits in my basket, proud, beside my clearance fruit
Why are you so pleased with yourself? Nobody gives a hoot.

Oh dear—the line’s progressing quickly, forward one by one
linch along so timidly, I fight the urge to run
Look, see, youre managing, you wimp. Your torture’s almost done.

Uh-oh, I’m getting closer, feel my heart begin to race
With each step that brings me near to interaction, face-to-face
Why is this still so hard? You do this once every four days.

I’m going to mess this up, I’m going to look like such a joke
T'll trip, Pll stammer, drop my card, try speaking but just choke—
Stop panicking, you idiot. You'll give yourself a stroke.

The terror starts for real now. What if my card gets declined?
Do I dare to make eye contact—oh shit, oh no, I’m next in line
JUST BREATHE IN, SELF, RELAX, BE CALM. YOU’VE GOT THIS. YOU'LL BE FINE.

Heart’s pounding madly as the cashier greets me with a smile
Why must this process always be this terrifying trial?!
Fuck it, next time you're going through the self-checkout aisle.