Popcorn

Freshly popped, buttery popcorn. One piece travels from the bag to the mouth between little fingers, and new adult front teeth decapitate the crunchy bit from the soft head with a careful bite. The fingers—only the pointer and the thumb—pinch the popcorn head and squeeze it flat until it becomes a smooth wafer. It is flicked onto a pile of other flattened popcorn heads, saved until the crunchy bits are gone and the only thing left to do is eat the wafers one by one, savoring the salty, buttery remnants on the tongue.

Watermelon

Sticky, sweet, summer. It’s so hot in the childhood home with no pool or water available to swim in. Mom cuts up watermelon into slices and brings it to the table for her sweating, energetic children. We eat it and spit out the black seeds, watching the pile grow higher as sticky juice runs down our hands to our elbows. We debate how closely one can get to the rind without tasting it. We’d rather stick with the juicy red melon and leave some left over than risk getting too close and eating the stiff, green husk.

Mom scolds us. We nibble the rind.

Bittersweet.

Earthworm

After the rain, earthworms emerge and get washed onto the pavement. She watches one struggle on the concrete in her backyard. It looks like it is bleeding, but she’s not sure why or what happened. She runs into the house and grabs a band-aid. Band-aids are for humans, but she is the doctor now and doctors use band-aids when there is blood. She returns to the earthworm struggling to return to the safety of the dirt, and she unwraps the band-aid to wrap around it.

As she picks it up, wrapping the too-large band-aid around the thin worm, she accidentally breaks its body in two. She lays the pieces down in horror. A wave of sadness engulfs her. If she hadn’t tried helping, it would have lived, she thinks to herself, and returns to the house unable to express how devastated she feels. She knows it is silly to feel so moved by an earthworm, so she keeps it to herself.

Besides, she doesn’t want anyone to know of her failed, misguided attempt to help. She is not allowed to make mistakes.

Glue

Glue on the hands gets sticky, but when it dries it peels off so beautifully. Art projects become forgotten when there is dry glue to be peeled off fingers and hands like skin.

It becomes popular at school. When glue is poured over pencil box features and hardens, peeling it off creates bookmarks with designs. She feels like a genius when she discovers this, and her friends agree. The glue is so distracting her teacher needs to redirect her several times, but she still does not finish her school project.

It hangs in the classroom unfinished, but she does not regret peeling dry glue off of her fingers.

Wagon

The green wagon, with its two bench seats, swinging door, black wheels, and black pull handle, was the vehicle of childhood. The girls and their cousins would haul it around the neighborhood in a slow parade, taking turns riding, pushing, or pulling. There would be stops on the way to climb trees or play pretend, but mostly they kept moving, rolling along the endless asphalt.

The wagon carried two girls, then four—pulled first by their mother, then by the elder two. Now, it carries soil for the garden and wood for the outdoor fireplace. Its paint has faded to the green of old leaves, its wheels are cracked, and its handle wiggles from overuse. But it is still green, still at home, still useful, still.