We lived two blocks from the state line,
two blocks between Illinois and Indiana.
Agnes had her store in Indiana.
Almost every day we crossed the state line,
unobstructed, unaware of any meaning.
Agnes was an old lady with a gray wig.
She was always nice to us, threw
a few extra penny candies into our bags,
not following us around the store
like other proprietors did.
It was a happy childhood memory,
but mean teen intervened.
We began to steal small things.
Agnes was pur-blind; we knew
she could not see us.
I don't remember feeling bad.
But I remember when we started
stealing empty bottles to cash in
with her after we thieved the back
of her store before her son saw us.
He called to his mom who stumbled out.
her wig askew from her hasty response,
looked ridiculous, plaintive call:
"Why did you do that?"
Agnes died after I moved away.
I sighed and tried not to remember
until today when an old, gray-haired lady
crossed the street ahead of me.
She looked like Agnes and I was sad.
We may try to forget, but the human heart
is a sentinel for us all.
Originally published in Tenth Muse