She Will Buy the Flowers Herself

Saturday morning and
the bluegrass trio is jamming.
Not yet ten, but the town hall lot 
overflows with locals and tourists.
We make quick progress
moving market stand to craft stand 
from back to front of the market.
As we hit the farm tent 
closest to the main drag, 
we find a serpentine line. 
My companion and I,
we take our chances 
and stand behind 
the last one standing 
in the queue.
I feign patience; 
the sun is creeping above.
I mentally weigh the benefits
of popping out of line
to get a lilac latte
but rule it too much caffeine 
for my inconsistently-slept self.
But my daughter 
is intrigued, 
enraptured by the 
pull of the produce,
and so now must be I.

So, I stay in line; 
I hold a six-pound 
head of cabbage
against my hip 
like a hefty babe.
I let the previously purchased
bunch of pinky-blush radishes 
and their gritty, moist greenery 
graze my thigh, 
leaving damp imprints.
Slowly, the line trudges ahead.
After a spell, we gain access 
to rugged plastic milk crates 
on our right flank
spilling a plethora of parsley
and an avalanche of rutabagas.

My kid has her eye 
on a specific bouquet;
a smattering of wildflowers 
gleaming in the sunlight.
The woman in front of us,
she has similar goals:
she hoists the prized flowers 
from the white bucket, 
dripping translucent holding waters 
on the makeshift counter.
"'She will buy the flowers herself,' 
It appears," I muse, quietly.
Meanwhile, my child groans, 
a little too loudly, 
"Noooooo those are miiiine!"

As the bouquet bandit 
brings them to her nose
it is clear she is living out 
a bucket list moment
with her nearly thousand dollar 
leather-trimmed raffia tote
and her solid gold Cartier watch
and her 'quiet elegance' 
Loeffler Randall raffia 
two-band buckle slides.

I take in the whole of her, 
selective sole to coiffed bun
and I see in her, 
a new demographic.
She feels different, heterogeneous, 
a polished gem amidst 
a stretch of granite pebbles.

She feels 
not of this place, 
separate.
This is not the woman 
of my childhood Julys.
Times, they are a changin'.
This slim, toned, 
responsibly sun-kissed woman
is not a townie, 
nor someone 
who works with her hands.
Unlike the farmers 
and fisherpeople 
who created this place.

This is surely a visitor, 
a Summer Person,
someone playing a role 
in an imagined Nancy Meyer film
for a weekend,
perhaps maybe a month.

But mostly, I calculate,
registering the weave 
of her designer linen dress, 
the dangle of her hefty
paperclip gold bracelet, that
this is not someone 
who would be 
open to negotiation.

I lean down, half a head, 
to my growing teen, 
and I say, 
with all the empathy 
and knowing 
and mutual grief that
I can encapsulate 
in so few words:
"They're gone." 
I whisper.
"Find a new one, Love."

As the line slugs forward, 
my shopping partner 
is in arm's reach 
of the next bin of blooms.
My not so little one
scoops up a brilliant chaos 
of yarrow, pink snapdragon, 
sunflowers, 
coreopsis and marigolds.
Her smile returns, 
the technicolor frenzy 
bouncing stained glass shadows 
off her throat.

"THESE!" 
My daughter declares, definitively.
It's hard to question 
her demonstrative commitment.
I applaud her ability to overcome 
the tragedy of losing her posies 
to the lady with perfect nails 
and a distant gaze.

We wend our way 
through to the cashier, 
while I surreptitiously snap photos 
of unsuspecting patrons
to fuel my creative process.
As I zoom in, 
I realize The Change 
is embedded;
endemic, maybe.
I capture a trio 
in summer brights,
all gold wedding bands
and podiatrist-approved, 
but make it fashionable, sandals,
and totes and satchels that scream:
I am succeeding at blending in!
I'm not from Manhattan!

By the time we make it 
to the intentionally humble pay stand
I am grateful to have the option
to exchange a flick 
of my Apple Watch wrist 
for this fistful of field
and all too soon, we are back
in a stuffy SUV,
contemplating our next quest.

Perhaps we will try our odds
at the tag sale down the coast?
The breeze feels right; 
the winds foretell 
of a future success.