Berkeley Bowl, Produce
I wonder what he will do with his potatoes, why he needs so many.
Hunched in a motorized scooter, an elderly man struggled to fill a bag with sweet potatoes and I offered assistance as he moved them one by one, with one hand, and I remembered the fragility of our being. The beauty of community. The ways we suffer its absence. The warmth of two lives aligned, briefly.
I wonder what he will do with his potatoes, why he needs so many. I will slice mine, roast them with butter, salt, pepper. Savor their softness, their sweetness lingering on my tongue. I hope his bring him pleasure, sustenance to his weathered body. A moment of joy.
