At the Food Cupboard

We stand, bodies touching in the too-small anteroom,
feeling the blast of cold each time someone enters.
We laugh at the awkwardness of this crush waiting
for a door to open, for a line to form,
for questions to be asked or orders to be given:

What’s your name?
Do you have your card?
Sign here.

The minutes tick on. I avoid eye contact. What would they think
if they knew I was here not to get, but to give food away?
They grow restless and, after a while, someone complains—
You’d think they’d open the door a couple minutes early on such a cold day.

Murmurs of agreement. Stories begin.
Of the time a woman was scolded at a soup kitchen—
When you see a piece of paper on the floor, pick it up.

Of the time a man was stopped in a food cupboard hallway—
You’re not supposed to be here.

Since when did she own the halls, he wants to know. Says he felt
like plastering her. He tightens his lips, stares defiantly
at the still-closed door, and the others applaud with their laughter.

When the door opens, I murmur an apology, step to the head of the line,
wonder what they think of my eavesdropping. They shuffle along,
leaning on walkers and canes, oxygen tubing attached to nostrils,
faces weathered by life. Patiently, they fall into line, loosen threadbare jackets, remove caps. They are the old, the infirm, the young with their young.
They wait alone, with a partner, with families, friends.
Silently, they sign in, take a ticket, keep moving and accept bags of groceries,
chunks of USDA cheese and a frozen chicken. Their eyes are downcast
until I ask, Can I carry that for you?

They smile with a gratitude too deep for such a simple gesture.

I haul their groceries to Caravans filled with waiting neighbors,
to rusty junkers and Chevies loaded with the detritus of their lives.
As we walk, I ask how they’re doing.
They drop bits of their existence into mine—
a heart condition, back surgery, exhaustion,
how hard it is to grow old.
I am touched by their openness, by the need
we all have to tell our stories,
by their quiet resignation
to life on someone else’s terms.

It is the first time the tiny woman beside me has come here.
She turns to me, and I am struck by the life in her eyes.
There is no sign of the bitterness I was privy to earlier.
So eager to believe in the goodness of the outstretched hand,
all she can say is, I didn’t know there was a place like this.

I want to share in her joy, affirm her thankfulness, but the best I can manage
is a Happy Holidays as I set the bags carefully on the back seat of her car.