His Name Is Henry
The glass broke in the next aisle.
It wasn’t one bottle. It was a lot of them. A sharp, crashing, splintering sound that went on for two or three full seconds. Like somebody had dropped a box of Christmas ornaments down a flight of stairs.
Then silence.
Then a woman’s voice.
“Oh my God. Are you kidding me? Are you KIDDING me?”
My daughter Zoe and I were standing in the cereal aisle at Lakeview Foods on a Saturday afternoon in March. I was holding a box of Cheerios. She was holding a box of Lucky Charms and making her best argument for why marshmallows were a vegetable.
We both froze.
“Mom,” Zoe whispered. “Something broke.”
“I know, baby.”
The woman’s voice got louder.
“You’ve got to be kidding me! Look at this! LOOK at this!”
I put the Cheerios back on the shelf.
