Aisle 5, by Ysabel Sanchez

My fingers graze a jar of pasta sauce. Your favourite brand is on sale. All at once I’m victimized by the unexpected poignant moment in aisle 5. Nostalgic for laughing in our galley kitchen as you threw noodles at the wall to check for doneness. You zigging for the bowls, me zagging for the forks. Our well-rehearsed bachata in the narrow space. I never cared much for dancing, not until you, not since you. I squeaky wheel my cart away from the memory and decide to make tacos instead.