Day 5: Missing

I hated Thursday night grocery shopping
Like nasty coffee
On first weekday mornings
After queues that snailed to the cashier
I threw my end of the bargain away
And left in haste
Enjoyed the lightness of recycled exhaust fumes
Lighter than the recycled breath
Of huffs and sighs
Of tired secretaries
And consultants
And children refused the luxury of more bubblegum
I enjoyed the outside atmosphere
And a modicum of personal space
I hadn't made it far
When my eyes clapped on an old lady
With the look of someone who was lost
Her eyes wandering looked at me
Then
She looked at me
Held her hands out and cried
With a tongue tied
In a hard knot like the one knitted into her heart
Her words made half the sense
Her situation made to her
"My daughter
I can't talk to me,
My daughter won't answer my calls"
Her hands shook like Parkinson's disease
Landing on her head
And taking off in flights
The runways of her scarf
Turning right and left
In search
Eyes dilapidated
Pupils dilated
"She said she would come back in a bit
And maybe even help us finish... shopping"
Don't worry, ma'am, you know it must be traffic
"No, my daughter's never late,
My daughter's late
Oh God, Oh God," she mumbled away
She pointed towards a man standing nearby
And asked if, I had a phone to help call her child
My phone died, he said
Her husband took my phone with trembling hands
Is it the tremble of fear or of an aging man?
"Come back here!"
He called to his wife
Running and rocking back and forth,
After the seventh,
I thought I glimpsed Hajer
Skirts billowing
Thirst killing her
The thirst to know
On a quest that was not about
Nourishment for her child's life
But searching for her child's life
How long were you here?
"Almost two hours
More than long
Oh God, something's wrong..."
I could do nothing more
I took my phone
Her husband assured me
Everything will be fine
Even though his daughter
Never answered since she left
They hailed a taxi
And proceed to put their groceries in the back
She picked up the bags, and put them down again
Picked up the bags, and put them down again
Held them in one place, shaking
Until her tired man relieved her of the excuse
Of something to do
That night,
I looked at the numbers on my call records
And as I looked at her number
I wondered, if I called, would she answer
Or maybe the owner
Couldn't hear if I called her
I feared that her mother
Knew exactly what was coming
Because Mother worries
And her instincts are never off
But I hoped that for their sake, it was
I went back to unloading the baggage
The groceries
The heaviness
I had brought with me
But I couldn't remove the one on my chest
How I hate Thursday nights
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April is Poetry Month: 30 Days, 30 poems.
Link to other poems: http://drumsofhopeagaisntahistoryofpain.blogspot.com/p/april-poetry.html