Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Sage

I grabbed a small bundle of sage at the grocery store last night, and immediate thoughts were of the 8x8 garden in the before. The smell of the sage was strong, and I remembered how the velvety leaves grew big and fragrant in that little garden. Then, I couldn't keep up with how it replenished. And at times, pruning it back gave me a strong distaste for the herb--mostly because of how heavily its smell hung on my hands.

Glad for this little bunch. I really only use it at Thanksgiving for my stuffing. And once in a while when I make that sausage and cannelli bean casserole.

At check-out, I bagged my groceries. When the little bundle was handed to me, I got a whiff of it again.

I said aloud, "I used to grow sage at our other house. I had a little garden where I grew lettuces and herbs."

The cashier looked at me. He was very young.

"It was hard for me to keep up with this herb. It really got to be more than I could use," I said.

"My dad has a garden," the cashier said. "He grows lots of vegetables in it. He used to grow sage too. He likes to cook."

I looked at him and smiled. His eyes were brown.

I wonder sometimes if cashiers feel invisible--processing people and food and transactions one after the other. I wonder, too, if the patrons seem to them like one anonymous blur day after day.

Thankful to be present in the moment, to look into a stranger's eyes and share the slightest glimpse into our worlds.

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