Portside

There I Was

By Avery Gregurich

There I was

in the middle of the frozen food aisle by

the breakfast items, putting something on

the shelf behind the woman live-streaming

the insurrection on her phone. it was loud

and i saw her smile fight against the loops of

the mask chin-strapped beneath her teeth. she

was watching the ones who had shown up in

her place. the rest of us had to hear that sound

and try to imagine the rest. i’d been watching

the militia grow for months from my post behind

the check-out counter, how quickly the uniforms

were sewn. the stars and stripes had changed

colors with the seasons until finally, in winter,

falling into darkness. “it’s bad out there” the nurse

who worked at the grocery store to get cheaper

health insurance had said, though it wasn’t clear

what she was talking about. shopping each aisle

with care, she continued to tune in throughout

the payment process. after she left, it got quiet again.

very few shopped the rest of the night, and those

that did offered us cryptic updates, sometimes

photos of smoke billowing, once a noose.  i remember

most of them buying canned goods. driving home on

the phone with my brother, he said “i never saw this

coming, did you?” it’s been so long now, hearing the

bells ringing, that i believe i forgot what they used

to mean.

 Avery Gregurich is a writer living and working in Iowa. He was raised next to the Mississippi River, and has never strayed too far from it.