Convenience

Convenience stores are lanterns illuminating black street squalls; a light tap on the shoulder by an old friend. As insistent as they are vulnerable, laminated in shadow, they invite us in, away from darkness. One peers inside, perhaps sees the owner leaning across his counter, hope, boredom, anxiety etched on his immigrant's face. His wife sweeps, his children race down its two narrow aisles. A splattering of color fills the shelves. Sudden urges for chips or Mountain Dew, pork rinds or beef jerky are satisfied here. A bandage, matches, a comb, thumb tacks, glue and a newspaper wait for anyone deliberate enough to search. These are not neat, balanced stores. Surgical light glares, the radio plays salsa or meringue. Cowardly businesses close for the night; this lonely outpost, seen from afar, becomes a beacon of sustenance, civility, safety.
 One steps inside, where a customer chats and gesticulates, where laughter prevails, keeping vigil for a sleeping neighborhood that craves identity, needs the store's endless hours, always awake and watching. From the sky, these pinpoints of light are a town's sentries, convenient needles jabbing at the isolation within this urban ethos.