A Small Town Witch Sings “Copacabana”

She wiggles her hips to the rhythm of Barry Manilow muzak, pushes the metal cart with a wonky wheel ahead of her as she dances. Her gray hair in jaunty dog ears, she rocks a swishy silk skirt from Connie’s Consignment and an I’m With Her tee shirt. The look is completed by white sneakers on which she painted multicolored polka dots, and necklace and earrings made with acorn caps and sweetgum balls strung together with fishing line she found tangled in a button bush.

“What a magnificent potato!” she declares, holding a russet up to the light.

“Ah, the frozen cheesecake!” she croons.

“Bless the bakers of multigrain buns,” she intones. “Ooh! Fruitcake!”

All the employees try to train her, but she insists on using those damned canvas bags, the ones that don’t fit on hooks, won’t stay open. Sometimes the clerks who’ve encountered her pretend to be on break when she comes through the line, which means she gets the pleasure of meeting the new hires. “It confuses us all!” she swears, when the too-soon-burdened teenager struggles to ID an avocado.

The magic doors open for her cart full of stuffed bags. Sunshine breaks through clouds when she blows a kiss to the sky, and a breeze wraps itself around her like armor or a lover. This is how a witch goes unnoticed in the world—by the grace of attentional blindness.