An old woman moves toward me,
using her cart as a walker,
head hunched 
into fragile shoulders.
I see her often here,
respect her painful travel
through the aisles,
her persistence wearing a groove
in her wake.
This time, as we pass, 
the lane pulses
with invisible ripples—
all the breathing and choosing,
reaching and stooping
of those past, those to come.
I grip my cart, one with all of them.
Melons, lemons, color and order
have lost their power to soothe.
I study my list, 
matching word to thing.
At the checkout 
my name is unfamiliar,
but I smile the usual ‘thanks’
and ‘take cares,’ 
crafting my own rift
in the air.