I handed her two sweet potatoes, two peaches, and finally two pints of salted caramel ice cream.

She had that I’ve-been-crying-but-I’m-really-just-done-with-everyone-and-everything- don’t-look-at-me-or-talk-to-me look going on. Her name tag read Bailey, and I felt the syllables of the endearing name of my 65-lb Rottweiler nearly soar from my lips followed by a four count of “girl.” Baillleeeyyy ggiirrlll! “Bailey is my dog’s name!” almost exited my mouth,  and although I meant it as an endearing statement, I quickly realized that she may not have taken it that way. I guess I could have added, “And I really love her!” No, never mind. Awkward.  So instead I said nothing as she weighed my potatoes and rung up my total and said, “you saved two dollars today.” I smiled and she tried to smile back, but her attempt was so sorry that in that instant I wanted to hug her and tell her it could heal, no matter what it was, who it was, where it was, why it was, how it was. It could heal one day. That it was possible. No words mattered though. Not right that second. So, instead I said nothing.  I took my sweet potatoes, peaches, and ice cream from her hands and walked outside to my car.

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