Death by a Lamb
The wintery cold air blew from the North giving me a sneeze. I grabbed my coat as I shivered from the freezing weather. I looked up at the long line that seemed endless as more customers approached. Today was a pretty busy day. Lots of customers are in line and the conversations I heard grew gradually. It must be because a traditional holiday is near, sending tons of visitors and tourists crowded all over the town to pay a visit for their loved ones. Although today was filled with exhaustion from the unusual busy work, the customers at the neighborhood grocery were mostly nice and kind. It was nice to have someone to talk to on a day like this. Especially, the old women with the hair like the color of shredded paper and ageless worn cloth which you can find across 71st Ave. Oh, and also that young twelve-year-old girl named Amy who I just remembered. I had the longest conversation with Amy, whose hair was like fire red, her cloth was new and fancy made from her own mother’s talented little hands, whose shoes were as blue as the cold night sky, and her eyes were like the never-ending ocean over the horizon. Her smile was warmer than sunshine. Amy always cheered me up. It’s her personality that naturally does the job.