Sandwiched among nectarines, lopsided organic pears and red potatoes, I pick up a handful of crimini mushrooms. Surface pocked with dirt, they fit snugly in the palm of my hand, pale under the fluorescent lighting. Weighed in my left hand is a bag of hotdogs. Any thoughts? Aimie just rolls her eyes, resting elbows to chin on our empty cart.

When I was four, my mother bulging with pregnancy, I decided it was going to be a girl. And thirteen years later, here she is, long-limbed, leaning lengthy as she waits for me to choose. After about twelve and a half years of hair-pulling and narrow-eyed bickering, she’s become a best friend—although I can’t tell her that—as well as a great cart-pusher and shopping buddy. We share stories with the pace of playing catch: it’s your turn, no, it’s your turn.

I think I’m preparing to make dinner, but the aisles of choices demand otherwise. We’ve biked, and sliding between spices and condiments my legs twitch, tense with the beginnings of an inevitable bowlegged bicycle trot. Next aisle.

“I’m working on it,” I say to her impatient snort.

“How about spaghetti?”

I shrug, chewing on a free sample toothpick. “That was last night.”

Our conversation ambles with us through the aisles. It is the mindless talk of familiarity, mashed and mixed with the grime of siblings and friendship. Free samples, perhaps, an overwhelming selection of just-in-season Honey Apple Crisps? or if you’d prefer, fresh middle school angst coupled with boyfriend gossip.

Blast. I’m at a loss, the muse of meals heartless as she flits out the sliding doors. Aimie isn’t very helpful either. Her cell phone rings again, listing its demands, brimming with urgent, ready-to-talk friends.

Humming phone pinched between her shoulder and ear, she holds up a bag of chili mix. No way, I mouth, although I’m not sure she sees, turning back to her friends before she hangs up.

She is just my height- although she’ll say half an inch taller—with the same face, same strengths and as such, a budding monster for competition. Envy is too strong a word, I guess, for that sneaking sinking in my stomach. Perhaps admiration is more appropriate.

Whatever it is, it emerges from my wonder and respect for her bubbling personality, her social ease and friendships, her intelligence and talented, gangly athleticism. She’s grown, still growing, and I watch with wonder and anticipation. Look, as she leans eagerly over a steaming cup of coffee, children at college, work forgotten, and the same familiarity of thirty-five years past.

“Did he really say that?” she asks me. We’re in the frozen food section. I don’t think I need anything frozen.
We leave without buying anything. Walking out, shoulders hunched against the weather, helmets tucked under our elbows, we stumble into a cold, misting afternoon. But our stomachs are quenched with unguarded samples, and we’ve shared stories, and that, sometimes, is better.

This essay was written by Hana Kawai, Nathan Hale Class of 2006, Brown University Class of 2010.