It was summer, and they were grape and melting. I sat on the curb holding them, one in each hand, somewhat like how one might hold a candle or lantern when in search of something in the darkness, resting my arms only occasionally upon bent knees. Jeff had gone across the street to St. John's to give Sister Bonaventure a note from my mother. I said that I'd get us something from Spring's Store and meet him in front.

I remember it now much like one views a collection of trees from a speeding automobile; one blurring into the next, somewhat amorphous as individual entities, but whole and complete as an image.

Sticky beads inched down my palm, across my wrist, along my forearm, finally dripping silently from my elbow. I sat stirring, with a stick, the puddle of purple, my mind surprisingly unoccupied, until a troop of ants rushed to the scene.

The general chugged a beefy cigar and barked, “Forward march!” and with exquisite discipline they marched. Mechanical and shiny, they marched beyond the crushed Pepsi can, over the wrappers and papers, getting closer with each multi-legged step. Without a hint of hesitation, or time enough for regret, they marched one after the other until they all drowned in a thick liquid glucose. The first to go could not warn their comrades of their fate, nor could the remaining forsee what was to come.

As I sat there, mesmerized by the scene unfolding before me, I did not hear the siren go off.

With our heads tucked safely between our knees and our little bodies huddled under a table, I asked him:

“There was wisdom in your popsicle, Jeff. Did you see it?”

Posted: March 21, 1996

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