You are four in a canned food aisle with your grandmother
when you see a rouge-cheeked man
in a blond wig and pale pink bathrobe.

He must sense your terror.
Hi Honey, he smiles.

Your grandmother says hello, and you squeeze her hand.
His smile doesn’t fade
as he pushes the cart on past.
You give him a longer look.

He turns the corner at the end of the aisle
and the world becomes wider than the cubby hole
that holds your Strawberry Shortcake lunch box,
deeper than cereal boxes with prizes at the bottom.

You are seven drinking soda outside Taco Bell
with your mom, dad, and younger brother
when a man walks by with
brown hair and a shriveled arm that hangs limp.
In a not so quiet voice and greasy mouth
your brother asks, What happened to him?!
You tell him to shush.
He takes a longer look.

You are middle-aged at a Diane Arbus exhibit
when you stop in front of a portrait of a man
with hair in rollers, penciled eyebrows,
cigarette in hand,
and nails prettier than yours.
Your eyes hold his
long enough the cigarette’s ashes could spill.
His parted lips seem an invitation to speak.

Softly, you say,
Hi Honey.

Photo:  Artem Gavrysh