During the summer, I used to shop at the farmers’ market twice per month or sometimes weekly. I loved purchasing the fresh produce, especially for Reg. Frequently, I purchased vegetables and small potatoes that I later cut up and prepared; Reg grilled them on our outside grill. At the same time, I would buy ears of corn that were piled high into the back of a pickup truck at the market. Reg always did a great job grilling those. We would sit on our outside patio, eat our grilled food, and enjoy the summer evening together.
The first time I went to the farmers’ market after he passed away, it was almost too much to bear. The farmers’ market is in a straight line with booths on either side of a wide aisle. I walked down the center of the aisle crying pretty hard. I had on sunglasses, so I just let the tears flow. Nothing had changed; the same booths that had been there the prior year and for years before that were still there. How could those booths still be there while Reg was gone? There was a man who worked at one of the booths who always wore a Hawaiian shirt. When I went to the farmers’ market for the first time, he still wore a Hawaiian shirt. How could the same man be wearing the same shirt as if nothing had changed while my whole world had changed?
The same pickup truck that held the ears of corn was in the same spot. I saw people at the truck choosing which ears of corn they wanted to purchase. I just stared and felt dumbfounded that other people got to purchase their corn while I’ll probably never grill corn again. The grill was Reg’s domain, not mine. Therefore, seeing these fresh vegetables, the small potatoes, and the corn showed me what I no longer have. That life has ended. The farmers’ market just shoved that right in my face.
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