By Krys Stefansky

My first inkling of change came in front of the refrigerated meats case last week.

A cute fella with dreadlocks was stocking that space when I peered over his shoulder and searched.

Am I in your way? he asked, and I said No, no, but could you please hand me a package of the Canadian bacon?

He did and then - whoops - I wanted one more thing - So, sorry! - and he smiled graciously and handed me that, too.

I thanked him and turned to find a young woman behind me.

What do you need, Sweetie? He asked her with a huge, wide-eyed smile and warmth from here to there and I was momentarily....irked.

SHE was Sweetie but I was not? Hmmpf.

I shook it off in the cereal aisle and checked out.

Later that same day, I called my mailing store to report a package missing in Brooklyn where it had possibly arrived and then certainly disappeared from the front porch of the brownstone where my daughter lives.

My mail guy listened to my sad story and I conceded that it wasn’t a big loss - just some cloth face masks and beef jerky and a cat toy - but it would be nice if he could make sure that the box had, indeed, been delivered or not.

We sort of know each other by now since I‘ve been mailing packages to Brooklyn for a few years and even more frequently during this virus.

And so, as we hung up, I wished him a good rest of the day, thanked him and said goodbye.

Bye Sweetie, he said.

And the Sweetie was not the same as the Sweetie that had passed me by in the grocery store. It was tinged with....something....

And then it came to me. I wasn‘t Sweetie, hooboy, I know you, you are a looker! I was Sweetie, as in Lordy, honey, you know that package is gone but I will indulge your old self.

I am Ancient Sweetie now. One step from walking with a cane. Exactly like I was in front of the refrigerated case in the grocery store. I just didn‘t know it then.