Pixie Stix

Out for a walk with the twinlets this evening I passed a garbage can in a park overflowing with the coloured wrappers of spent pixie stix.

I remembered Charlie. Charlie brought me pixie stix every day. I don't know how Charlie knew they were my favourite. I don't know where he got them. Charlie was blonde with buck teeth. I don't remember ever really talking to Charlie except to say 'hello' and 'thank you'. My friends all assumed that Charlie was my boyfriend. I guess I thought that too. Why else would he bring me pixie stix? He never gave any candy to anyone else. Not that I knew of. We were five years old and in kindergarten. Already independent enough to take the bus to school on our own we were putting our own stamp on the world. Every day Charlie would find me on the playground and he would give me a pixie stix -- the red and orange ones were my particular favourites. I would rip open an end, tilt my head back and let the powder pour into my mouth. I actually don't remember ever having had pixie stix before meeting Charlie. I don't remember ever having them since that year.

35 years later, walking in a park, I remembered Charlie, the taste of pixie stix and how good it felt to not question the intention behind a simple act of friendship.