Our neighborhood is not like other neighborhoods.

Our nearest grocery store is 2.3 miles away.

The nearest store used to be a mile away,

but they closed it down under unusual events.

 

To get to the nearest store, I would have to take an hour-long bus ride,

45 minutes if we were lucky. As a mom, I would put on my thrifted clothes,

make my way to the bus stop and buy the groceries for my children to eat.

Otherwise, we’d be living off of the convenient McDonalds on our block.

 

I’m sure my kids wouldn’t complain about that. Maybe

they would feel upset if they found out that the reason we can’t

have fresh fruits and vegetables is because supermarkets

don’t see us as anything worth investing in.

 

They follow the wealthy folk wherever they go

because they know they’ll make a profit off them.

We, however, would not be able to afford

the bananas, tomatoes, and avocados all in one purchase.

 

Taking a lengthy bus ride might not be as physically taxing

as, say, the Olympics, but under the hot summer sun or amidst the cold winter,

it feels laborious. On top of that, I must carry the extra weight

of the groceries on my trip back. It is enough to knock me out once I get home.

 

But someone needs to cook. Someone needs to be there

for my children. No matter the sleepless nights

I have, thinking about tomorrow’s lunch meal

or if there’s enough for everyone excluding me.

 

No matter the fear I have about not earning enough

on my next paycheck or the everyday emotional drain.

I must venture through the empty space of my hometown

and into the nearest Kroger for a piece of security.