It's the first cold morning of fall, and I'm at the last open register at Spencer's Grocery.
The store is closing after sixty years. The cashier hands me my receipt without a word.
I fold it into my wallet, next to the hotel key card from work.
Back home, the folding table wobbles on its short leg. Everything feels temporary today.
I guess I called because I needed to say I was there. That register was the last one.
It's not about the store. It's about watching something finish and not looking away.