Missed the Exit for Albertsons
Rachel Weinhaus
She meant to go to the store but ended up two states over.
The list had started small: eggs, milk, poster board so her son could run for student council, though she knew he would lose. Those things were popularity contests. She wished she could explain without hurting him. Instead, she tried to soften his expectations: It doesn’t matter who wins. But she saw it in his face. He knew.
Her list grew: eggs, milk, poster board, strawberries that weren’t dull pink, ice cream. She’d get shelled pistachios, organic tea, a good bottle of Scotch (she’d ask someone), ripe bananas, green colored pasta, travel-sized toothpaste—as much as could fit in the cart. She’d get more carts. She’d line the aisles with carts. They’d need a bigger house, a bigger fridge, and then …
The highway stretched out in front of her. The list stretched with it: fresh blueberries, pecan pie, cosmic crisp apples (crimson red), aged Parmesan, a spider plant, memories of a mother who might have loved her. Finally, seeing the junction for New Jersey, she pulled over.
Her son called. She answered. He tried out a slogan that rhymed.
She paused, unsure. “Do you like marshmallows?”
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