celery raze "this is ridiculous," she said. her voice thick with the music of the country she was born in. "seven dollars for a stalk of celery. can you believe it?" he wasn't going to buy any. he only needed two ribs. but the woman made him think of his grandmother. a frail facsimile of lost faith. he said he'd foot the bill. he would take what was necessary and give the rest to her. she offered to split it with him. he shook his head. when it came time to pay, he was twenty-five cents short. "don't worry about it," the cashier said. "i've got it." the old woman whose name he would never know thanked him. she gave him a fist bump and went home to make soup, or stew, or some other sublime magic with her overpriced marshland plant. he made tuna sandwiches for himself and his son, drowning viridescent branches in water that coursed through intake pipes miles beneath the lake that rocked their tired bodies to sleep at night. 230113 what's it to you? who go blather from