Lucky Charms

One foot in front of the other. 

I stepped carefully on the scratched linoleum that spanned for miles ahead. The shelves on either side of me towered like cliffs. The items they held seemed to only exist above my head, only available for the people at the top. I’d been stuck in the gorge below them since I was born and I had never learned how to climb. 

I leaned against the handlebars of the cart I was pushing, absorbing its stability. The squeaky wheel screamed as we traveled forward, seeming to imitate the monologue in my head. I pushed on, not wanting to prolong the experience.

The too-bright lights beat down, not letting anything escape their illumination. Nothing could hide, nothing was safe. The only way to avoid detection was to keep your eyes down and pretend nobody could see you. To pretend nobody could peer into your cart and see exactly what kind of life you were living. Exposure like that doesn’t leave much for pride to shelter.

Growing up, I learned not to participate. I looked straight ahead while someone else picked apart the options, carefully selecting the lowest unit price, electing for carbs over greens because they command a bigger space. It's a science, really, how my parents kept us alive all those years. 

I learned to pass over the carts in favor of a basket. People look into your cart and see your soul. People look into your basket and see a quick run to the store for the staples. They don’t see the long hours that went into making the shopping trip possible. They don’t see that they’ve turned their luxuries into necessities. They don’t see that their essentials are a portrait of affluence to you. 

I learned to look straight ahead as we made the death march down the aisle. The face Mom made when she saw me reading brand names like “Lucky Charms” and “Oreos” for the first time will be etched in my brain, heart, and stomach for the rest of my life. It was easier to pretend nothing existed except the bread and potatoes that we carried around first in a basket and then later in our bellies.

I learned to never make eye contact with the cashier. Always smile, always be polite, but never more. The gentleness with which they ask if you need help finding anything else is enough to turn your cheeks red. The pity in their eyes when you have to put something back is enough to crush your spirit. Better to pretend they don’t see you struggle than face the shame of knowing they do.

I learned about temptation. It’s hard to resist your strongest wants when your greatest needs remain unmet. I always thought the devil lived in my brain, but it turns out that he speaks through a growling stomach. He’s loudest at night, when the grumbles fill a silent house, reverberating off the wooden walls, swallowing you whole. The only way to quiet him is faith that there’s better to come, but hope alone cannot sustain you. Weakness perpetuates desperation and no condition feels more desperate than hopelessness.

I learned that hopelessness is not helplessness. Not even close. The will to survive is stronger than the desire to break down. Crumbling into a million pieces seems like the easier option until you remember how hard it is to put yourself together again. Rome wasn’t built in a day, but it could be destroyed in less. Having the gumption to keep going takes courage and an unbelievable amount of willpower. My parents taught me to keep firm and hold fast, no matter the adversity. They are a reservoir of bravery, a chalice of peace, and a silo of grit. It turns out that the strongest people are the ones who feel like they can’t lift another foot. 

It’s been six years since I’ve lived at home, six years since I’ve been financially dependent on anybody. Six years since I’ve been able to get a good job and could afford to give back to my parents. 

Six years, and yet I am still in the gorge, surrounded by cliffs. 

My boyfriend and I went shopping for groceries for our new apartment. He picked up a box of Lucky Charms and threw it into the cart without a second thought.

I grabbed his wrist. What are you doing?

They’re good, he said, bewildered. You don’t like them?

I was still. I didn’t understand the question. Grocery shopping wasn’t just a matter of if you liked something - there were much more important factors to consider. 

Weren’t there?

Or maybe there weren’t? 

The price on the box, which, once, would have seemed astronomical, didn’t seem so high anymore. Could we really have this?

I let go of his arm. I backed up. Nodded to the cart. Okay.

We continued on. He didn’t grab any other crazy things off the shelves. He watched me out of the corner of his eye, probably trying to figure out my animosity towards Lucky Charms. 

At the self-checkout, I scanned the box with apprehension. My credit card felt heavy in my hand as I went to swipe it. It felt wrong - illegal, almost - to put the cereal into the little plastic bag on the end of the turnstile and rip my receipt off the printer. 

I had a tiny bowl of them for breakfast the next morning. They were really good. I liked the marshmallows. My boyfriend smiled at me over his spoon. 

The next time we went to the grocery store, he threw another box of Lucky Charms into the cart. My stomach clenched. I released it. It was okay. Lucky Charms were good, and we could afford them. I liked them, and so I would have them. 

I let that thought tumble around in my head. 

It was nice, I decided.

I smiled at my boyfriend. 

He smiled at me.

I felt warm.

The cliffs didn’t seem so tall anymore.

Maybe I was learning to climb.