2/1/17

9:23 PM

Dear Coca Cola, 

I was shopping for pajamas.

You, underwear.

We were at a thrift store of course -- the best place to find PJ's and bras

Anyway

What else were we?

You were old

I was young

You were Italian

I was black

You were short and in a wheelchair

I was tall and mobile

You were there alone

I was there with my grandmother

We were different.

But we had something in common

Aside from the aisle we happened to be shopping in:

We liked to talk.

I remember glancing at you over my shoulder

As you thumbed through rack after rack of linen bras, cotton bras, polyester bras

Every kind you could think of jumbled up on haphazard hangers

"Eh," you said. "Well isn't this a good one?"

I didn't think you were talking to me

But I turned around anyway

To find you holding a D cup leopard print bra with matching panties

And I didn't care who you were talking to --

I had to laugh.

You laughed too.

You stood from your wheelchair 

Revealing yourself to be a little more than half my height

And put it back.

"I used to wearing things like this," you told me

"Oh," I said.

I feel no need to recount every word of your rant about how your body has degraded with age but the gist of it was: you used to be a good-looker

You sighed. "My daughter," you said

You said some things in Italian

Or in such heavily accented English

That I didn't understand

Then you began talking about your daughter

About how she had a figure "Like . . . ahhh . . . you know, Coca-Cola bottle?"

I was still looking through pajamas, but less so now

You talked more, talked about your son and your husband

And how when you came to this country

You raised them to be good, strong people

Even though they sometimes weren't 

These days.

Then you asked if I was there with my mother

I told you no, with my grandmother

And I will never forget what your face did:

It lit up, then dropped, then settled into a resigned frown

"You are very nice girl," you told me. "Your grandmother must be very proud."

I didn't know what to say

So I asked, "Do you have any grandchildren?"

You nodded.

"They are not like you," you said. "They do not talk to old nonna anymore."

Saddened by this and

A little uncomfortable

I turned back to the pajamas which I realized I had been through three times already

"I hope you do not change like them," you went on. "You must be nice to old people, yes?"

You gave me an almost stern look

I smiled. "Of course."

"Your grandmother must be very proud," she repeated. "Tell her I said she ought to be proud."

"Thank you," I said. 

You reached for a lace bra just out of your range from the wheelchair

And pulled yourself slowly to your feet. 

"Being old isn't so bad," you said. 

"Except for when everything starts to hurt."

I remember almost crying then

My heart breaking for you

And everything about life that hurt you and wronged you and cheated you

I took a pair of pajamas off the rack. 

You caught the lace bra between your vein-webbed fingers

And we looked at each other

"Well," I said. "It's been so nice talking to you."

You nodded.

You smiled. "Yes, yes," you answered. "So rare, very rare to meet nice young person like you. Your grandmother must be proud."

And after that, I never saw you again.

        With best wishes,

                   -Never

(PS: If you ever read this, I told my grandmother. She says she is very proud of me.)