I went to the grocery store on its last day. The parking lot was half empty, like a funeral where only the closest showed up.
The last open register was at the far end, number 3. Mrs. Delgado was working it, the same woman who'd been there since I moved to the island twenty years ago.
I grabbed a loaf of bread and a can of beans. The corkboard by the door still had coupons from 2019, curled and yellowed. Nobody bothered to take them down.
Donnie, our family's longtime mechanic, was in line ahead of me. He bought a single six-pack and a bag of ice. 'Where will we go now?' I asked. He shrugged. 'The mainland, I guess.' He said it like it was a death sentence.
My total came to $4.87. I paid with a five and got back a dime and three pennies. I didn't put the pennies in the tip jar. I kept them.
The quiet battle no one sees is the one against the slow erosion of small places. The ferry, the duplex, the store—all of it holds me together. When one piece goes, I feel the others loosen.
Walking out, I realized I was gripping the pennies so tight my hand ached. I put them in my pocket. They're still there.