I no longer dine with my depression. I walk. Downtown. I like the cobble streets and the street lamps. Sometimes I can be Mary Poppins or Ginger Rogers. On Chestnut Street I walk by a maple tree. I love its sense of rebellion and confidence. I wish to be that.
Today my eyes are tired. At my age, even the cold, wet paper towel in the center’s bathroom does not help. Nevertheless, the lotus flower tattoo blooming into doves on my arm tell me hope exists.
Missing my Grand, I almost return to my dreary bedroom. The man again invites me in to the show. His invite is not necessary but appreciated. Being invited feels wonderful.
I am amazed how many ways there are to cook potatoes. A lady selling a copper pan makes potato chips. The sample is salty. My stomach has been angry with me lately, but accepts the chip skeptically. I promise it if we find someone sautéing chicken I will let it decide.
A toddler sits beside me. He asks if this is my real hair. I tell him no and it is not my porch either. I am just pretending.
He likes to pretend. He has a stuffed giraffe. He says the giraffe likes my hair also and says, “hello.” I believe him and tell the giraffe, “thank you.”
I look again at my shirt. Under the window it says, “Make life a little better, come to Hullco.”
At my home depression lingers, waiting with laundry, dirty dishes, and whispers of my inadequacy. It can wait. Up the next aisle I smell flowers and candles. As I rise and say goodbye to the toddler and Mr. Giraffe. My stomach settles. It agrees that if there is chicken in the next row, we will stop there too.