Concrete’s searing heat

Burning soles of tender feet.

Grandpa’s hand,

Calloused and warm

Coarse skin of strength and surety,

Playful and pulling,

Leading to a candy store

And magic things,

Bare feet pattering ‘cross uneven boards,

To shadowed wood, cool on bare feet

Fans droning on counter and floor.

“Two dollars, Lady Bug, anything you want.”

Gravelly voice, loud and dear

Glass jar, turning over and back,

Jelly beans rattling loud against glass.

Hopeful smile, wide eyes beseeching.

“She’ll have these then. One half pound,”

Rasp of tin turning on glass.

Tummy rumbles and Grandpa’s laugh.

Jelly beans,

He knows her so well.

Light sparkles off cut edge flowers

Small beans spilling from round glass jar,

Jewel tone gems tumbling end over end,

Jumping one over the other

And into bag, small and brown

Rustle of paper

Needle whipping upward

One half pound of childhood dreams.

Screech of black marker,

Scent of ink

Fifty cents marking paper all crinkly and brown.

Inhaling cinnamon, peppermint and licorice.

Line of baskets,

Cinnamon candy stick,

Peppermint twists

Long lengths of licorice.

Choices to make,

So very difficult,

Standing on tiptoe,

Sniffing long ‘til sure.

Tinted finger pointing,

Grandpa’s voice,

“Half pound cinnamon, half pound peppermint.”

Three small bags sitting in a row,

Each with fifty cents marked on its side.

Butterscotch on the air,

Mouth wateringly so,

Tongue tasting,

Drool on her chin,

Swallowing desperately

Small finger points one more time

And soon

A fourth bag sitting on a counter,

And another childhood treasure

Filling a heart with memories.

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