A puff of cold wakes her. Strangers open and close freezer doors to find the things they'll bring back to their houses where they'll open and close their own freezer doors. She is on the ground with back to glass. Curled up like a frozen samosa fallen from its carton, exiled from some dumpling family of perfect corners. Waking is a kind of melting. She nods to shoppers like they have solidarity. The absurdity of commerce unites them, or so she thinks.

I imagine returning to my high school. I'd bring my own weather like the bonsai tree in that Billy Collins poem. The one that sails alone around the room. Maybe the cafeteria would bring some newfound perspective. The late office would make a lone gesture like it always did. My past would reach from the deck of its verdant shrub to draw me in, lower me down, and row a hundred fathoms toward white-capped choices called future. I'd sit with my old guidance counselor, and he would lean in, again attempting to pull me from terribly small rooms and my family's typhoons. He'd get distracted and tell me about his recent visit to the Soviet Union, about how strange it was that they called restaurants pectopahs. I'd laugh to myself knowing I would study Russian in college and understand his confusion. But in this poem, he does save me. Determined not to fuck up this time around, I'd give myself a chance: spoon a sampling of adolescent's soil, regulate its watering, adjust the sunlight. For now, I'll sit in the corner on a tropical day and trace the angles of adulthood with dull pruning shears.