John Surowiecki Price Rite's Last Day

that curved and made me bloody this day. Hours later, I rode home on the other side. No Mother Goose marches to and fro, searching for signs of her goslings. No showtime to amuse then shock, no line of drivers stopped, just another stream of cars. Not one feather to bear witness. I see how speedily highway police sweep death away. Don’t brood,

I tell myself, brooding won’t bring them back to cross the road. But when will I stop seeing mother and crew proudly marching, delighting other drivers, until my Toyota closes their show?

John Surowiecki

Price Rite's Last Day

What we're seeing is a little glimpse of the end of things. The melon bins are missing and the piles of buckeach avocados are gone, no earthsmelling potatoes or Spanish onions as round and white as softballs:

the whole place is abiginfinite nothing, an indoor prairie of empty shelves and perches, warm freezers and naked pyramids. All that’s left are cans of pigeon peas, oval tins of sardines, Jamaican kola shockingly yellow.

Most of all we miss the light, the abundant never-abandoning brilliance overhead. Now darkness eddies, spirals: everything has a shadow. The cashier—laidoffbutworking, there butnotthere— waits for us in the express lane and is quick to show us the door.