Amina's memory

I'm pushing the trolley full of our Saturday shopping down the narrow supermarket aisles.

My stepdad is behind me, trying to decide between Chicken Mushroom and Mushroom Cream soup.
I'm pushing the trolley, trying to skate with it just like we did when we were kids.

I stop at the meats corner and see a packet of crabmeat, the same label we used to eat four months ago.

There's a sweet chill that creeps from my stomach to my lungs, a sweet chill that pulls the memory back into my head, of three friends smiling over crabmeat in a dark kitchen at 3 am.

My stepfather calls out to me and asks me if I want Mushroom Cream, but I'm still stuck in last summer, dipping the crabmeat into the jar of mayonnaise with my two best friends.

For a moment, I'm flushed with guilt and I forget my anger.
Maybe I've been too harsh on her.
It's not her fault that she's changed so much.
It's not her fault that we've both grown up. For a few days, we had the perfect friendship, but it's been downhill ever since.

I unconsciously reach towards the packet, thinking

'Maybe if I eat it again, at 3 am in a dark and empty kitchen, even if
I'm alone, even if I'm older and uglier, maybe I can bring them back again.'

It's not her fault we've grown apart.
It's my fault for loving her too much.

I put the packet back on the shelf, because it's overpriced and I'm
trying to lose weight.
And it's too late anyway.
Funny how a packet the size of my palm epitomizes the best friendship I've ever had.