crying at Costco

You can remember what someone looked like, how something tasted or felt, but you don’t remember a smell until it hits your sensory receptors like a static electric shock.

So there’s me, today, at Costco making my way towards the bread. The store’s just opened, air’s blasting through the bakery with a hint of cinnamon hitching a ride, and when it hits me I’m dropped back in time, short little kid me, opening the door to the Greencastle Ruritan’s kitchen to find my grandmother and her friends preparing food for an event. Maybe it was an estate auction, or an extended family reunion, or a distant relative’s funeral. It didn’t matter if the occasion that brought my family to the community center was a celebration, a sale, or a mourning, it meant I’d get to see my grandmother and play with my cousins in a side room where kids wouldn’t bother the adults.

That’s how I came to be the lady crying over pies at Costco. For a moment I remembered how life used to be, who used to be in it. My toddler daughter looked at me from her seat in the cart and I realized she and my son are at the age where these very same kind of memories are being formed. I told her what I was feeling, kissed her on the forward and then blew air in her hair she she’d squeal and laugh and push me away.

And then I bought a giant bag of Halloween candy and everything was right again in the world.

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