Saw Her at the Market.

¶ … saw her at the market. She was young, no more that twenty-two, or three, leading two toddlers by the hand and a baby in the shopping cart. She wore a tight, spaghetti-strap baby blue top, jeans, and dark brown flip-flops. Long, dirty blond hair covered her shoulders, and a small tattoo of a flowering vine graced her wrist. Her dark eyes darted everywhere as she kept track of her rambunctious children and added items to the cart. Baby food, pudding, carrot sticks, Fruit Loops, and milk all made their way into the cart as she maneuvered down the aisle like an out of control tug boat, towing children behind. They followed in her wake when they wanted to, and wandered off nearly as often as they followed. Harried and harassed, her shoulders drooped further and further as she made her way around the store.

She had a nervous gesture of pushing her hair away from her face, even when there wasn't any hair there at all. The baby seemed to pick it up from her, waving a wisp of hair away as she automatically pulled a bottle out of the oversize bag on her shoulder and handed it to him (he was wearing a blue cap) when he cried. Unfazed, he pushed the bottle away and screamed louder, leading the toddlers to join in. The rising din was enough to drive me to another aisle of the store, but their cries could still be heard, even over the dreadful Muzac that wafted down the empty aisles.

A wondered why she was shopping so late with the children. Long after most toddlers were tucked safely in their cribs for the night, she wandered the aisles looking tired and alone. Perhaps she had just gotten off work, picked up the children from the sitters, and stopped by to pick up some breakfast items for a new day. The baby's continued bellows seemed to indicate a change of diaper was the source of the cries. She herded the children toward the restrooms at the back of the store, and I watched them disappear into the women's restroom while I perused the ground meats. Why don't they ever sell meat in packages for one, I wondered.

Trying to decide between chicken and fish, I saw the group emerge from the restroom a few minutes later. She was stashing a packet of baby wipes back into the bag she carried, and the children had quieted down as the baby got comfortable. She passed close by to look at the markdown bin beside me, and I could smell the familiar odors of baby powder, soap, and milk, they were that close. I closed my eyes and thought back to my own children, now grown and gone, and treasured those memorable baby aromas.

Up close, I could see her clothing had seen lots of wear and tear. It was well washed and clean, but the pockets of the jeans were threadbare, and the sandals were scuffed from wear. The children's clothes were also meticulously clean but faded from many washings and hangings on the clothesline. I could see from her cart that she was just about finished shopping. As she put back a roast on sale and picked up a pound of ground beef, the toddlers began to cry for candy.

Not tonight," she said.

Her voice was rich, surprisingly rich, and husky, but it sounded tired, too, like the troubles of the world weighed it down. She pushed away a strand of hair again and reached into her bag for her wallet. She looked at the cart, glanced at the contents of the wallet, and shrugged to herself. I so wanted to hand her a twenty and tell her to buy the roast and the ground beef, but I knew in my heart she would never take a handout from a stranger. She probably wouldn't even take one from her own family. It was clear she was proud and struggling as she gathered her brood together and headed for the check stands.

A watched her disappear down the cracker aisle and remembered my own days as a young mother. They seemed nothing like hers. My husband had a good job, I didn't have to work, and I never took the children out shopping late at night. They were well dressed, well fed, and some would say pampered. They certainly grew up to be remote, selfish, and demanding. I suppose I babied them, Richard always said I did. Now, Richard is gone, and like a ship sailing alone, I'm adrift and ill at ease with my aloneness. Perhaps I should have talked to the girl, and offered my services as a babysitter. Lord knows, I could use the company. Here we were, two women at opposite sides of life, both looking for something we could not find at the local market. Like two ships that pass in the night, I thought, as I closed my eyes and remembered the aroma of baby powder.