My mother's arm at my side was warm, and I clenched onto it like the handle bar of a roller coaster car. My breath swirled in big clouds before me, dissipating into the grey sky more quickly than I could watch it go. A handful of snowflakes fluttered to the ashphalt, but none stuck. Although I was bundled up and no snow had fallen yet, the air was bitterly cold. I twitched my nose as the breeze caught it through a hole in my scarf.
"It's freezing," my mother commented, rather obviously. She pushed my arm away from hers as we stepped up the curb and departed to grab a shopping cart from the return stand. A car brushed by, its tires crackling against the cold, rocky tar. The incessant beeping of registers colliding with the sound of clanging metal carts and screeching children blew through my muffled ears and drilled into my brain. My headache was dulled by the cold, reduced to a numb throbbing.
I grabbed the edge of the icy cart as my mother wheeled it beside me. She crunched the grocery list in her gloved hand by mistake, nearly dropping it. Although it was short, I had the feeling we'd be shopping for a while- as we always did.
The automatic doors behind us slid open again, and a tall figure approached us.
"Parked the car, honey," my father said to my mother, pocketing his keys. "Your nephew is still coming, he's just a bit slow."
Just behind my dad ran in a tall, thin boy with rusty red hair and pale skin irritated by the cold. He thrust his hands in his coat pockets mumbling something about my father walking too quickly for him to check out girls. I rolled my eyes.
My mom pushed the cart ahead to the isle nearest to the door, but my dad hesitated.
"I'm going to pick up a bottle of antifreeze, give me a call when you're ready to check out."
"Sure, sure," my mom said, and waved her hand as we made our way to the end of the aisle. My eyes scanned over doodads and shiny bobbles, but I didn't bother to take any closer a look. My mom, however, was stocking the cart full of useless things: lampshades, old cartons and crates, tiny toys, golden coins, and brass and silver picture frames.
We meandered through the story slowly, my cousin following closely behind, until we came to groceries. It was then that my mother sent my cousin and I on a treasure hunt all across the store for things she'd forgotten along the way. The store was empty, so on my way to pick up the tool kit that she'd forgotten, I played a little game that I hadn't had the immaturity to attempt since elementary: only step on the floor checkers that are white.
My cousin reached hs arm across my chest to point out the tool kit that we needed. I snatched it off the shelf and tucked it under my arm to carry back to her. We returned to the aisle that we departed from, but she wasn't there anymore. We weaved in and out of every aisle- 1 to 14- one at a time, but we saw no sign of her. I fished my phone out of my pocket to give her a call, but to my dismay, the battery had died.
My cousin sighed, but continued to help me look. My mother wasn't skimming the deli or searching for bread, and she was nowhere near the vegetables. I scratched my head, wondering where on earth she could be. Then I saw a glint of light at register 9. It could only be her barrette sitting on top of that pile of brown hair. It was definitely my mother.
"She's over that way," I said to my cousin and pointed toward the lineup of registers. He nodded and we started in her direction at the front of the store, tool kit in tow. We were nearly halfway to her when a balding man in a stained white muscle shirt rammed into my cousin's side, knocking him into me and the tool kit out of my hands. It broke into tiny pieces on the floor. I stooped to pick up the shattered pieces, but my cousin stopped me.
"Dickhead!" my cousin shouted at the man, his voice deepenend with anger.
"What did you say to me?" the man barked, whipping around to see who shouted.
YOU ARE READING
Dream Journal
Acak"Dreams are the illustrations of the book your soul is writing about you." - Anonymous.
