The End of Moreland Ave - 5

The End of Moreland Ave - 6

I recognized them just by the backs of their heads in the checkout line. Which makes perfect sense, I guess, because I spent hours in church gazing at the backs of their heads. It was a little sad to see them, 20 years older than they should be, heavier, grayer under the fluorescent lights, lined up in the mega Pet store instead of in pews.
    “I just saw some people I know,” I told my husband. “Old friends of my parents-– a couple from their Sunday school class.”
    “Did you want to talk to them?” he asked. He had a huge sack of dog food balanced on one shoulder.
    I shrugged. “No need. They probably didn’t spot us.”
    I wanted to linger a few more minutes in the chew toys aisle, just in case. To speak to them would mean a mini-reunion. It would mean a replay of the same conversation I’ve had with them for the past 10 years. Energetic greetings. Update on my siblings, my parents. Bragging about their kids, who are my age, who have moved here and there, who I was never that close to anyways. I couldn’t muster it up. It’s too sad that they are 50 already and they are the last generation of our church.
    When we rounded the corner, they were already gone.


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