Market: Spring 2008

It's Friday. That means John will give me a Wendy Jo cookie and tell me a story about his granddaughters, one I've most likely heard before. Jim will buy unsalted cashews quietly, smiling. Fernando will give me an apple and teach me a word of Spanish. Lisa will float into the building, beautiful, joyful. Mike and Stellar will make ordinary things extraordinarily funny. On this particular Friday, Tom will wear the brightest yellow pants. Ever. And Skip...oh, Skip. He will fill our arms with hugs and our ears with exuberant kisses.

I love this place, this give and take, this interaction with such brilliant humanity. I love the sound of apples dropping into my cloth bag, of familiar voices asking familiar questions. I love watching shoppers awkwardly balance produce, milk jugs, flowers, money. I love Earl's whiteboard poetry, and the slow, meaningful way Edie places potatoes in my hands. I love the smell of freshly ground peanut butter, of brewing coffee, of earth, of verdant soil. It infiltrates the air of this place.

I take it all in with gulping breaths--a desperate attempt to preserve it within me. I want these sights, sounds, tastes, smells to settle into my lungs, my belly, my bones. I want them to fly with me across the world. I don't want to lose them. If I must leave, at least let me remember these small, familiar joys.