It’s 11pm on a work night
and there is a little girl playing harmonica
in the grocery store.
As I am examining the avocados
the child triumphantly stomps up and down
in her feety pajamas
playing her music with Mozart-esque enthusiasm.
I have a coupon for forty cents off whole wheat spaghetti
and remembered to buy more dental floss
(even though I haven’t run out just yet),
but there is something in the harmonica serenade
that suggests I am only the second most prepared person the produce section tonight.
I want to grow up to be that child.