by Sandra Erickson
Right at the stroke of eight, we head out the back porch door, every Saturday, Grammy and I, and ride the #5 Post Road bus downtown. We get off at the Five & Dime, window shop Genung's, eventually crossing, mid block, to those big grocery store doors. My shoes always squeak on that green-gray linoleum tile as I push and she leads, one hand holding her penciled list, her other to the front of our carriage. It's all stop and go, then; stop and go. I navigate, as best I can, fishtailing though aisles of tuna cans, of apricots, Lorne Doones and tall, cool bottles of Coke. No, we never leave until I've run into the back of her legs at least once.
Sandra Erickson - potter, poet, teacher - divides her time between the classroom, computer, and her East Barre, Vermont studio.