On Borrowing

I was standing in line at Great Harvest, waiting for a loaf of honey whole wheat, and trying not to stare. A woman behind me stood with her mother, waiting for a loaf of something with raisins in it. 

Maybe it was the way they touched, arm in arm, then holding hands, then daughter's arm around mother's shoulder--how their togetherness evolved. Maybe it was the permanent confusion on the mother's face; that she brought her fingers to her mouth and dropped them again, discouraged that even her motions were beyond comprehension. Maybe it was the mother's white hair, her face heavy with wrinkles, how she wore her age like a mask.

For all of this, I found myself wishing I could explain: No, you're not a novelty to gawk at; no, I don't pity you. You're so familiar, only I haven't been able to remember until right now, watching you, and if I look away, maybe I'll forget again for too long. Thank you for your daughterness, your motheredness.