Twenty Five Years

I remembered the last time I talked to Priscilla she told me she had worked the KFC counter for twenty-five years, pointing to the small gold pin on her black uniform; a token she had received for her service.

"Did they give you a raise or a gift?" I said.

"Naw. Nothing like that," she said softly, her cheeks dimpling with a smile. There was no anger in her voice.

Priscilla was an aging, black doughy grandmother. I imagined her grandkids loved to hug her. Maybe someday I would hug her. She lumbered when she walked as she replenished the KFC buffet table after the waves of construction workers, senior citizens, young highway workers piled their plastic plates high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, limp green beans, jello, gooey cake. She favored her right leg as she delivered more food for customers' second and third trips through the buffet line. I wondered if she had a painful hip.

Hour after hour, she either shuffled back and forth from the kitchen to the buffet table or stood at the counter taking orders and ringing up sales. At any rate, she was on her feet all day.
​
But it was unusual that she was not at work today.

• • •
​
How does Priscilla's reception of a 25 year pin with no monetary reward affect you?