Showing posts from February, 2015

When Your Heart Hurts

My grandmother has that bag. That black canvas one with National Geographic sprawled in white and a yellow stripe down the side. Inside it holds her lunch, water, and ID as she heads to her second shift as a nurse. Some mornings groceries line the inside. That bag is always full.

The skin on her fingers was thin and course, her brittle nails broken, but beautifully shaped with pearly white tips. She fingered her way through the bag on the chair next to her, taking long sighs and wiping the hair from her face. Her plate sat full with a styrofoam to-go container of corn bread to the side. I'd never met or seen her before. 
It was Friday and lunchtime at the community kitchen. Like the other days, we sat and ate with clients. Sometimes talking, sometimes not. I sat with two older gentlemen already deep in their conversation. They nod and smile and continue talking with heavy ebonics. Picking at my green beans, I try to politely listen in, make some kind of connection. Eh, maybe n…