Field Note No. 6

Foraging

Today, I ventured out in search of sustenance.

Supplies on the island had grown unreliable. Snacks were scarce. Energy reserves were low. Morale was… delicate.

I prepared carefully. Keys located. Shoes applied. Baby secured like precious cargo. I left the island under overcast skies, hopeful.

I heard the clap of thunder first.

Then felt a gentle misting of rain.

For a brief, disorienting moment, I believed I had arrived somewhere lush. Tropical, even. A reward for my bravery. Perhaps a shoreline. Perhaps fruit hanging from trees, ready to be gathered by hand.

I opened my eyes.

The produce section at the local Ingles.

Not quite the paradise I had envisioned.

The air was cold. Aggressively refrigerated. The lighting unforgiving. The fruit arranged with quiet judgment. I stood among the potatoes, blinking, unsure how I had traveled so far and ended up here.

I navigated the aisles cautiously, pushing my cart like unfamiliar terrain. Everything felt louder than necessary. A man examined tomatoes with confidence. A woman reached for apples without fear. These people had not just come from the island.

I selected supplies at random. Things that looked nourishing. Things that could be eaten with one hand. Things that promised survival but not joy.

The baby observed silently from the cart, unimpressed by my efforts.

At checkout, I exchanged pleasantries with the cashier.

A ritual that felt both foreign and deeply ambitious. I smiled too much. I forgot how numbers work. I paid and escaped before anyone could ask follow up questions.

I returned to the island soaked, tired, and victorious.

Supplies were secured. The island would endure another day.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere out there, there is a tropical version of this place.

Warm, quiet, stocked with snacks that replenish both body and soul.

Until then, Ingles will have to do.