In a world that’s constantly shifting, finding comfort in small, steady moments has become more important than ever. This story, set in the aisles of a South Florida Grand Union, takes me back to a holiday season during my pre-med years, when I was deeply absorbed in academics and wrapped up in the serious business of becoming a doctor. Coming home, I felt like a visitor in my own life, and even my own family felt a bit unfamiliar.
As we navigate times of change, maybe it’s these small moments—the familiar faces, the warm meals—that help us find our way back to what really matters.
The grocery list my mother handed me might as well have been written in French (a class I barely passed). After months away at college, I felt like a tourist in my own hometown. I’d barely dropped my duffel bag on my childhood bed when she appeared in the doorway, list in hand, as if I’d somehow remember where to find anything in Grand Union.
The automatic doors whooshed open, hitting me with a blast of recycled, humid air, barely cooler than the sweltering South Florida afternoon outside. It was December, but you wouldn’t know it. Inside, the air smelled of pine-scented cleaner and cinnamon-dusted holiday displays, an odd combination in the lingering humidity. Overhead, tinny speakers played “Jingle Bell Rock” on repeat. I squinted down at Mom’s left-handed scrawl, smudged ink and all, trying to decode her handwriting and locate the ingredients for her famous Italian wedding soup.
After a few turns down aisles that seemed longer and more crowded than they’d ever been, I realized I had no idea where I was going. Every aisle was a sensory overload—spices, cleaning supplies, canned goods stacked high under fluorescent lights that cast a washed-out glow over everyone’s faces. And every time I turned down a new row, I noticed her—a young woman at the opposite end, glancing my way.
At first, I told myself it was just the holiday tension, but by the fifth aisle, somewhere between canned goods and baking supplies, the feeling started to gnaw at me. There she was again, pretending to examine cans of beans. I checked my face, looked down at my clothes—nothing out of the ordinary. Still, her glance only made me feel more out of place, like I’d wandered into a version of home where things weren’t quite right.
Then, just as I was about to speed through the remaining aisles, she came toward me, flip-flops slapping against the tile. Before I could take a step back, she wrapped me in a full hug, grinning like she’d just found a long-lost friend.
“Chuck! So good to see you!” she said, her voice full of warmth.
I froze, my mind scrambling to make sense of the situation. I mentally scrolled through family, friends, anyone she might be, but nothing clicked. A wave of discomfort washed over me, as though I’d been plucked out of my own life and dropped into someone else’s. Then, in a sudden moment of clarity, I realized—this wasn’t some stranger. It was my sister, right here in Grand Union, standing in front of me.
And yet, even with that realization, I couldn’t shake the unsettling sense of unfamiliarity. Her face, her voice, even her laugh—it all felt distant, like I was seeing her through frosted glass. I forced a smile, nodding and laughing along as she chattered about holiday plans, but inwardly, I was rattled.
Only later did I learn there’s a name for this unsettling feeling: jamais vu. It’s the opposite of déjà vu—and yes, I know, more French (so glad I took the class pass/fail). While déjà vu is that eerie sense of familiarity with something new, jamais vu is a mental glitch where something deeply familiar suddenly feels strange and distant. They say it can happen when you’re stressed, exhausted, or just out of sync—a brief hiccup in the brain that leaves you feeling like a stranger in your own life. And there in Aisle 9, surrounded by holiday chaos, I felt like I’d been struck by the season’s ultimate glitch. Was I losing my mind?
That night, we gathered around the table, the house filled with the rich, comforting smell of Mom’s Italian wedding soup simmering on the stove. The steamy broth and tender meatballs were part of every holiday I could remember, even when the weather outside felt more like a tropical beach day. And yet, as I sat there surrounded by familiar faces, the memory of that strange encounter stayed with me. I kept glancing at my sister, half-expecting that strange feeling to return.
I thought about how easily things can feel out of sync, how, even when everything seems the same, life can somehow shift without our noticing. Sometimes, it feels like we’re each wandering down different aisles, missing each other by a glance, wrapped up in our own thoughts and routines.
Sitting there, I felt a new appreciation for the ordinary—the laughter, the warmth, the taste of something as simple as a bowl of soup. Now, looking back, I realize how much those small, steady moments matter. When life feels disorienting, as it often does these days, it’s these quiet, familiar moments that keep us anchored. In a world that sometimes feels like it’s drifting, maybe it’s these memories that remind us where—and with whom—we truly belong.