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.