Farmers' Market

Bins burst with color: squash, zucchini, tomatoes, berries! Normally I’m in the middle of the shoppers, but not today. Today I skirt the edges. Chemo has weakened me, and I almost didn’t come, lest anyone should say, “Oh! You poor thing!” I round the corner and am nearly capsized by a peach colored cat running from a red-faced man. “That beast! Stealing my bread!” I tut in sympathy but squat to the cat’s level as he crouches under a bin. He’s too skinny—matted fur, sad green eyes. “Come,” I say, softly. “Let’s go home and defy our survival odds.”