One (Sarah Crossan)

Milk Trudge

We’re out of milk,’ Grammie says,

brandishing an empty milk carton and

a mug of steaming coffee.

‘Well, go and get some,’ Tippi says.

Grammie wrinkles her nose and pokes Tippi’s side.

‘You know I have a problem with my hip,’ she says,

and I laugh out loud;

Grammie is the

only person on the planet who ever pulls

The Disability Card

with us.

So Tippi and I trudge to the corner store

two blocks away,

which is how we get everywhere:

trudging

and lumbering

along,

my left arm around Tippi’s waist,

my right slung over a crutch—

Tippi mirroring me.

By the time we reach the store we are both

breathing hard

and neither of us wants to carry the milk home.

‘She can run her own errands in future,’ Tippi says,

stopping

for

a moment and

leaning on some rusty iron railings.

A woman pushing a stroller passes by,

her mouth

a gaping cavern.

Tippi smiles and says, ‘Hey there!’

then snickers

when this woman with a perfectly formed body

almost topples over in surprise.