Crossing the border
In recent years, supermarket aisles
have become increasingly long for me; by the time I load my groceries
into the trunk of my car, my arthritic knees complain mightily –
that was even after a young boy dashed across the parking lot to come
to my aid. He pulled up at my Honda Civic's rear bumper and
announced, “I helped my mom load up her groceries, and she told me
to come help you.”
I offered to pay him for his help, but
Mom had coached him well: he was not to accept money for an act of
kindness.
Arriving home, I hauled my three bags
of groceries up to my third-floor apartment and hastened to put the
frozen foods in the freezer and stash the rest on cupboard shelves.
It was mid-afternoon by then, and I
welcomed time to lie down for a few minutes and catch my breath.
Sighing as I leaned back on my pillow, I envisioned a border
crossing. I ached for all the immigrants trying to make it to the
other side in hope of finding freedom and a new life.
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