The woman in the checkout line is taking her groceries out of a basket. Ahead of her, a man who could be her son, hair also greying at the temples,  hefts the larger items onto the counter: packs of bottled water, a box  of navel oranges. When she touches his shoulder to say she would like  to pay, the ovals of her nails shine  like nacre at the ends of gnarled fingers. Perhaps she's held jobs requiring the constant use of hands: typist, stenographer; cook, seamstress, factory finisher, welder. Perhaps their blue- veined maps were merely inked by a lifetime  of domestic labors, a lifetime of smoothing  the creases and soothing the burns  of everyday life for others. That he gently  pats her hand and gives the cashier his card  for these transactions is simply what it is, as well as the whole world. And how, exiting the store, the one that goes ahead used to be the one that followed  or only walked beside.