his mother needed pinto beans

and white rice

and canola oil,

so the boy tagged along.

and when she got her pinto beans

and white rice

and canola oil,

the boy, with his small orange sized fist,

held onto his mother's long skirt

and she led him to the register

groceries in hand.

in front of the conveyor belt

where his mother laid her pinto beans

and white rice 

and canola oil,

the boy observed, were shelves.

on those shelves 

were what the boy had come to know

as plants.

but these plants 

were different than the grass 

in his yard

or, the bright yellow flowers in the grass

in his yard.

these plants were different.

they looked ashy,

the boy thought,

like how his copper skin looked

when he forgot to put on lotion after a bath.

but he also thought they looked beautiful.

one didn't have a stick,

he noticed,

and was all long, thick, tapered leaves

layered on top of one another.

one looked like the little green ball

he played with in the room 

with the television,

but this one was spikey.

he decided not to touch.

his favorite ashy plant,

though, looked like a baby tree,

with waxy round limbs 

of pale greens and yellows

all along the stem.

the boy picked up the "baby tree"

as he thought to call it right then,

and asked his mother 

if he could bring it home.

his mother smiled,

pleased with her son's fascination in such a small thing.

she, at her son's direction 

(as he was not tall enough to do it himself)

took the baby tree

and carefully (again, at her son's direction)

carried it to the woman at the register.

so with his mother's hand in one of his,

and the baby tree in the other,

he wondered if his plant 

felt that same tingle of heat

from the sunlight that shone on them 

as they walked out of the grocery store.