“That poor woman,” my husband says.

    “Why?” I ask, looking toward the House we are passing.

    “She’s Severely handicapped and can barely walk,” he says.

    I look over in the direction he is indicating and see a young woman, arms loaded with Grocery bags, clenching a to-go cup in her teeth.  The straw tips precariously.  Celery leaves lean toward the ground.  Even so, she props open the door with one foot, smiles and nods at us, steps inside and disappears abruptly from view.  The screen door slaps against its frame, swings and slaps again, before resting. I imagine her lurching toward a kitchen counter, dropping the bags onto its smooth surface. Maybe that is the moment the groceries are waiting for, the moment where they can spill out of their tight bags and spread across the counter, twirling about in unruly patterns. 

    "Phew," she would say to herself.

    “Who isn't severely handicapped?” I think.  "One way or another."

    Aloud I say, “She seems to be doing just fine.”

    The car turns the corner, but I continue to watch the house, half-expecting her to reappear on the stoop to wave goodbye and wish us well.