lunch lady Holly Brantley

Holly Brantley lunch lady

the dryer sheets i buy, smell like the lunch ladies crooning:

baby

over roaring ovens, and clattering pots and metal pans steaming with rancid food.

they watched us, gave us our milk, whispering:

make sure you eat it all, baby because how lucky we were to have the privilege of ingesting bagged strawberry milk at ten-thirty in the morning.

they empowered us all, my hesitant nods earning:

speak up now, baby, let us hear you

as anything worth saying is worth saying loudly, because your words are precious and the only thing you ever truly own.

and in return i grow up before their eyes, walking down the procession for the last time, they smile:

all grown up now, baby? don’t cry, baby. we’ll still be here. it’s you that’s leaving. tears salt the overcooked chicken, glistening on my plastic wrapped cookie, when i realize that leaving is the only thing worse than staying.