The walk to the entrance is long, long, long, one aisle that’s five times the size of the entire prison commissary

There are so many cereals.

So. Many. Cereals.

Aharon stands in the middle of Aisle 4. Cheerios and Frosted Flakes and Cinnamon Toast Crunch and three, four, five types of chocolate cereals: Cocoa Puffs and Cocoa Pebbles and Cocoa Munchies and Oreo O’s. Seven different boxes of cornflakes, for goodness’ sake.

In the commissary, there had been one type of cereal. Something bland and generic that he’d been sick of in under a month.

He glances back at the list Shira wrote for him. Shabbos cereal, it says. Granola.

Which one? There are fifteen different granolas, he can’t for the life of him remember which one they’d used to stock before — before. Had they even eaten granola? And which Shabbos cereal were the kids into these days? Couldn’t she have been more specific?

Shira sounds harried when he gets through to her on the second try. “Aharon? My connection’s bad. I’m just running out for carpool.”

He clears his throat. “The list… it’s not super clear. Which cereal, which granola….”

Her voice fades in and out. “…whatever you can… okay. Tzvi can pick up… later.”

Tzvi? What does her brother have to do with this?

The connection sputters to a halt, and Shira texts a moment later.

So sorry. Rushing out. Just get what you can, Tzvi can do the rest.

Helpful.

Maybe he should start with the produce. Apples, oranges, grapefruits, mangoes. Mangoes. Green and red like fall foliage, a sweet, fresh scent wafting from the display.

So many options. So much food.

And so many people, walking and chattering and choosing, a woman with a cell phone on her ear and a baby stroller, bagging carrots and squash as she holds forth earnestly about giving it one more try, yes I know you don’t feel anything, but he’s a great guy, you said yourself you haven’t dated someone normal in years, maybe just give it another date?

“Excuse me,” someone mumbles in his ear, reaching over his left shoulder to grab a bag. Aharon startles and all but jumps aside. He must look like an idiot, standing here with empty hands, faltering between the displays.

Another two women pass by with strollers, a kid pushes a shopping cart bigger than he is. A cart — why hadn’t he thought of that? The kid tosses a bag of potatoes into his cart and moves on, down the next aisle, to the canned goods.

Aharon’s eyes follow him: the easy walk, the casualness in the way he peeks at his list, grabs an item, saunters on. Something in his chest aches.

He looks down at the list. Bagels, cheese, apples — green, Shabbos cereal, granola, chicken breasts, honey garlic sauce, gefilte fish, corn cakes, olives, applesauce (unsweetened), sandwich cookies, peanut butter.

It’s not long, it’s not fair. He can’t go home empty-handed, not now, not when he’s finally back, finally able to give something back to her after all these months.

“Maintenance to Aisle Seven, calling maintenance to Aisle Seven,” crackles the speaker system overhead, and the sound makes him startle again, as if it’s got something to do with him. It’s maintenance they’re calling, not security, and he’s being paranoid, totally paranoid. No one is watching him. No one thinks anything. He isn’t doing anything wrong.

Green apples, let’s go. Shira didn’t write how many, but four, five should do it. Hopefully.

He stands back a moment, debating between Granny Smith and Golden Delicious — maybe he should just get a couple of each?

“Can I get past, please?” calls a woman with a double stroller, slight impatience in her voice.

And suddenly Aharon can’t do this anymore, can’t handle the bright lights and bright colors and bright faces, smiles and laughter and talk all around him. His hands are sweaty and the list is disintegrating, mind crumbling, thoughts splintering in a dozen directions.

The walk to the entrance is long, long, long, one aisle that’s five times the size of the entire prison commissary, and the parking lot is full, full, full; Odysseys and Siennas and Camrys and the occasional Lexus. He doesn’t have a car; his lease was up a month into his sentence, and he needs a job before they can afford to start a new lease. Shira has the minivan; she dropped him off earlier, but she’s doing carpool now, so she can’t even come to pick him up.

In his mind he knows no one notices, no one cares, but leaving on foot, emptyhanded, feels like hammering the final nail in the coffin of shame as he walks out, into the mocking early spring sunshine, to make his way home.

(Excerpted from Calligraphy: Pesach 5785; Mishpacha Issue 1057)