Marcia Moston
I thought it was unfortunate I didn’t have a problem that
day. Otherwise I might have thanked the voice in the self-checkout machine at
the supermarket for her encouraging words. Maybe taken them as being prophetic.
Unlike the woman on my GPS who launches into a frantic
litany of commands before having a robotical breakdown if I veer from her
directions, the checkout machine voice remained calm and collected.
“Help is on
the way,” she said after twice telling me to please put the item in the bag. I
had already put the item in bag, but had tried to rearrange things so the milk
wouldn’t sit on top of the tomato, which I had unwittingly put in first, but
you can’t disturb the weight once it’s on the scale, and so I waited for my
help to arrive—a young girl with her key card that set things in order again.
“Help is on the way.” The voice played in my mind throughout
the day, reminding me of times I desperately needed to hear those words.
