Sweets

The UPS clerk asks me what's in the parcels
I'm mailing to my daughters. Sweets, I say.
What kind? she asks, her eyes twinkling.
Homemade, I answer. And she has a sweet
face, open and mostly unmade-up, except
for a slick of strawberry lip gloss. I find
myself wondering if she has an ordinary
life— rise in the morning, part her dark 
hair down the center and tie it into a bun;
punch in at work, leave at the end
of her shift, buy groceries or diapers for her 
toddler, go home to do laundry, make food 
or watch TV or do trivia night without feeling 
that something must be empty or missing.