Lunch Lady

They used to call me Miss Edna.

I was a lunch lady at Jefferson Middle School for 31 years. Every child that came through my line knew they’d get a hot plate and a smile, whether they had the ticket or not. I used to hum while I worked. I remember the way the kids’ faces lit up when I slipped them an extra roll or a second scoop of mashed potatoes. That was a long time ago. Now I sit under this overpass with my back against cold concrete and a blanket that smells like rain and old stories no one asks about.

People pass me like I’m clutter. I see the pity in their eyes when they do look, but mostly, I get the avoidance. That quick glance and faster walk. One woman clutched her purse the other day like I had claws instead of fingers. I wanted to tell her, Baby, I used to serve your children lunch. 

I used to sing gospel in the choir every Sunday. 

I held my husband's hand as he died in the VA hospital.

But there’s no space for stories like that out here. Out here, you’re a body. A burden. A problem for someone else to solve.

My son—well, I think he still lives in Michigan. We lost touch after his third move. I stopped calling after the fifth time he didn’t answer. I like to think he’s busy. I hope he’s busy.

I didn’t expect to grow old like this. I didn’t expect my bones to hurt this much just from laying still. I didn’t expect silence to ring louder than church bells.

But the thing that breaks me the most isn’t the pain or the hunger or the cold. It’s being forgotten.

I used to matter. Now I’m just the lady with the plastic bags full of memories.

Sometimes, a little girl will tug on her mama’s coat and wave at me. And in that second, I feel like Miss Edna again. Not a ghost. Not a warning sign.

Just a person.