I was determined to go to the farmer’s market, bum ankle be damned.
A crutch under each arm, I tick-clomped, tick-clomped down the sidewalk, following your patient shadow. I stop. You stop. My armpits ache and sweat slides down my forehead.
I will make it to the farmer’s market. I will buy a goddamn bundle of radishes.
The world conspired against me a day earlier. It tilted the sidewalk; it dug out a crevice for my foot to slide into. It bucked me bronco-style onto the sidewalk.
I cried when it happened–partly out of pain, but mostly out of self-pity. I’m an active person. It’s one of the outlines that defines my shape. And a sprained or twisted or whatever-the-hell ankle is not good for the inevitable malaise I feel when I can’t be outside, when I can’t move around.
I feel a second (third? fourth?) wind swell within me and I step forward, into your shadow. I prattle at you and laugh at nothing, hysterical with the pain/pity cycling through my brain. You say nothing, but let me chatter. As is your way.
Two more blocks. I see the white canopies. I can smell fried momos and kettle corn.
You try to adjust my crutches and I get snappy. As is my way.
“I can do it myself, thank you.”
A sarcastic thank you, and I immediately regret it. You’re only trying to help me travel the vast distance between home and vegetables. You didn’t have to come along.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m an asshole when I’m injured.”
You shrug. “Yeah, kind of.”
We laugh. I tick-clomp on.
When we reach the farmer’s market, I let out a sigh and feel some of my pain dissipate into a bundle of almandine-colored beets. It’s hard to be mad at the world when it gives you treasures from the soil.
The pace is slow here. No stretches of mean, straight sidewalk. I take my time, looking at the green offerings, smelling the basil, eyeing homemade jars of jam that would only sit next to my other jars of unopened homemade jam (but they’re so pretty in their jewel tones, posing behind mason jar glass!)
I reach one of the stands and pause to examine a bundle of collard greens. A woman stops at my left side. She’s fine-boned and stretches just above five feet; a field of thick gray hair tickles her shoulders. She is leaning on a cane.
We exchange a glance, eyeing each other’s walking aids.
“The struggle is real,” I say.
She laughs. “The struggle is real.”
I tick-clomp on. A sliver of my heart remains tangled in her wild hair.