The Grocery Store

The grocery store was a cathedral built for second chances.

Automatic doors sighed open like they already knew why I was there.

Blueberries.

Egg whites.

Chicken breasts wrapped in plastic so tight they looked preserved for a better version of me.

I filled the cart with intentions.

Not groceries.

Intentions.

Hope has a strange barcode.

It scans every Sunday.

By Wednesday the blueberries had surrendered into a dark bruise at the back of the refrigerator.

The spinach folded into itself like a letter nobody wanted to read.

The yogurt expired exactly on schedule.

I did too.

Every aisle sold transformation.

Every receipt printed forgiveness.

Every week I carried both home.

Then, somewhere between the produce section and the drive-thru, I traded tomorrow for ten minutes that tasted like relief.

People think failure arrives like a car crash.

Mine arrived quietly.

It collected in crisper drawers.

Expired behind unopened salad kits.

It smelled faintly of cilantro and promises.

The trash can knew my routine better than I did.

Every Sunday it swallowed another version of the person I had planned to become.

And every Monday…

I walked back through those automatic doors believing they might open for someone different