She loved Elvis. Root beer floats. The Minnesota Twins. And me.
She taught me to tie my shoes. She held my hand on the first day of kindergarten. She waited at the end of our driveway every afternoon for my school bus.
She was the kindest person I’ve ever known.
When Annie was nineteen, she got a job.
At the Super One Foods on London Road. Bagging groceries.
It was the proudest day of her life.
She wore her name tag to dinner. She wore it to church. She wore it to bed the first night.
ANNIE.
I was thirteen.
I was in the store with her one Saturday. Picking her up after her shift.
A man came through her line. Big. Angry. In a hurry.
Annie put his eggs on the bottom of the bag. Under the canned soup.
She didn’t know any better yet. She’d only been working there two weeks.
