The man at the bodega is gentle with me
“Okay, show yourself to me. I’m ready to see some real spooky shit.” I say to my dead grandma. Usually the universe honors my requests. I asked her to show herself clearly to me. I’ve never seen a ghost, because I’ve never wanted to. I usually get what I ask for from the universe. For example, if I ask to see three ladybugs as a sign that my ex still loves me, I will usually see three ladybugs within 24 hours.
I’ve been walking in and out of a good mood. I felt myself one moment and the next while crossing the street, I ran too fast that I fell on the pavement. This week, my fingernails have been a mess I haven’t even inspected. There are also bruises on me that I don't remember getting. Three days ago my older sister stopped talking to me. Just walked out my door and didn’t respond to the text message I sent in the morning about trying to make up. Last time she did this, she went a year before she started responding to my texts again. We hadn’t even made it to a year of being okay again.
I go into the bodega on my block. Everyone in Pilsen talks to me in Spanish because they assume I’m Mexican. This makes me feel lost sometimes because I want to be spoken to as who I am, not who people think I am. I wish it was easier to understand who I am. But the end of the day, I live in a Mexican neighborhood. I am a guest here, and I know enough Spanish to get by. I’ve wanted to move to the north side by Devon because that’s where I grew up, but every time I go, I realize I’m not in control of the memories that the north side brings me. A glimpse of the beach or a walk down a street can either have me ecstatic or in shambles.
I’ve asked my grandma to show herself to me at this bodega. I’m on shrooms though, so by the time I get into the aisles and start looking for what I came for, I’ve forgotten that I also came looking for a ghost.
The man at the bodega is gentle with me. He sees I have been crying. He starts to bag my items very slowly and lets me take my time getting out my card and putting in my pin. He bags my bottle of Pedialyte very carefully. I suspect this is where his compassion grows from. He thinks I have spent my Sunday morning walking down 18th crying, on a mission to buy Pedialyte for an alcoholic who I am obligated to look after, perhaps a father or an aunt or a boyfriend I can't leave yet. He does not know that I live alone and I am buying it for myself, because tonight I plan to finish all the alcohol in my house and call a friend to cry to over the phone. The Pedialyte will help me wake up feeling somewhat normal for my 9-5 on Monday morning.
As I leave and walk back on the street, I remembered that I made a request of my dead grandmother. I'm about to feel even more alone, realizing I never saw the ghost I was hoping for. Then, I realize, she did not give me a ghost. She gave me a blessing. The man at the bodega was gentle with me.