Matthew Sportelli, United States's National Honour
October 2026
The Witness
The woman ahead of me at the supermarket was stealing a peach.
I watched her turn it in her hand, testing the softness near the stem, before slipping it into the pocket of her enormous winter coat.
It was August.
I remember thinking that the coat was an insult to the intelligence of everyone in the building.
She bought a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, and a birthday candle. One candle, blue, with a white stripe running crookedly down its length.
I could have said something.
Instead, I studied the magazines, the actress whose marriage had failed, the man who’d lost forty pounds and appeared furious about it.
The cashier asked if she needed a bag.
No, thank you, the woman said.
Her voice was pleasant. I disliked her for that.
Outside, I watched her cross the parking lot, one hand holding her groceries, the other pressed against her pocket.
I thought of calling after her.
I thought of the security cameras, the little black domes above the registers, the footage of her reaching for the fruit.
I thought of how easily I could prove it.
For three days, I told nobody.
Then, at dinner, I mentioned the woman who had stolen a peach.
My brother laughed. My mother asked whether I’d reported her. My father said people were getting desperate.
I described the coat, the absurdity of wearing wool in August, the furtive way she’d touched her pocket.
I did not mention the candle.
It didn’t seem important.
A week later, I told the story again to a friend who worked at the same store.
He said the woman sounded familiar.
He said she came in every Tuesday, always in the same coat, and paid for her groceries in coins.
He said she’d once asked him whether peaches ripened after picking.
I asked if he’d ever caught her stealing.
He looked at me for a moment.
Then he said, Why would I be watching her?
I wanted to explain that watching wasn’t the same as looking, that there were things a person noticed without meaning to.
Instead, I asked if he knew her name.
He didn’t.
Neither did I.
By September, I had forgotten what the woman looked like.
I could remember the coat, the peach, the crooked candle, but not her face.
When I tried to picture it, I saw my own reflection in the supermarket window, standing beside the shopping carts with a bag of groceries in my hand.
I had made myself the witness to something I could not explain.
That winter, I returned to the store.
The peaches were gone. In their place were oranges, stacked in bright pyramids beneath a sign advertising their sweetness.
I bought six.
At the register, the cashier asked if I’d found everything I needed.
I said yes.
She weighed the oranges, printed the receipt, and handed me my change.
As I turned to leave, I noticed a peach sitting beside the register.
It was small and badly bruised, the skin split near the stem.
I asked where it had come from.
The cashier glanced at it.
Someone left it, she said.
I stood there longer than I should have, waiting for her to tell me what had happened.
She was already serving the next customer.
Outside, the air was bitter.
I walked to my car with the oranges knocking together inside their thin plastic bag.
At home, I placed them in a bowl and counted them.
Six.
I counted them again.
Score: 86.04 out of 100.
Read the October 2026 National Honours