You can't go home again

 

        The market was full.  Every shelf was packed to the edge with products.  Extra cases of various supplies were piled along the aisle leading to the back room.  My Uncle sold mostly wine, an assortment of deli items, breads and cheeses.   One of the few neon storefront signs in the village, you could see it from way down the street.  Michael’s Delicatessen.  The only other neon in town was the marquee on the Birmingham theatre.

        I had been gone for several years, so I never saw the gradual transition, but when I walked into Michael’s, I couldn’t believe it.  I knew instantly that he was close to closing up shop.  He was finally going to retire.  The place looked sad.  The shelves were mostly empty.  There was no wine in sight, no aromas of deli sandwiches, or cheeses.  An odd can of Spam was the only thing occupying one entire shelf.

        He smiled at me when I walked in, but I could tell he was struggling to remember me.  When he finally did remember who I was, he insisted I take some wine he’d been storing in the back room.  “Take it.  It’s free and I don’t drink it.”

    Of course, when I saw it, I knew nobody should ever drink it.