9 February 2013
An abuelita came to my register, with bitter, ungrateful returns. Expensive sweatpants from a grown-up daughter and a hand-picked grandson’s sweater.
Her brown-spotted hands shook with age as she sorted out her receipts -- she outlined the sales in shaky red pen but could not see the numbers.
I quietly studied every receipt, matched numbers with gifts thrown back -- and long after she hobbled away her back lingered before my eyes.
I sat later, over my dinner, haunted by red-lined receipts -- and wondered at people who toss such love as if it were riddled with fleas.
A Christmas Story • Opuss № I