Inside your old purse you find a grocery list written for an older you on a yellow legal pad sheet. Edamame, bananas, a loaf of bread. Your old insurance card lies nestled between a booklist and a playlist; you were always writing lists at your old job, expectantly waiting around for things to start happening. You collected fortunes and enlisted shamans to help you make your wildest dreams a reality.

when i saw her two years later, her hair was blue and dripping.
it had been raining. we were at the grocery store
and she had a shopping card, her fat
toddler plopped in the front basket.
“what are you buying?” i asked, thumbing
through an exercise magazine.
“diapers.”
she popped her gum.
the toddler kicked her fat legs and laughed
at us both.