At night, my friend, awake in bed, takes yet another hard candy from the box, heedless of its taste, and after unwrapping it, throws the wrapper on the floor where it will remain for a million years. Then, as she chews it, she says, “My grandfather had diabetes and was not allowed even a teaspoon of sugar in his coffee. Then, on his last day, he threw a whole bag of it on the floor and said, I have been sad all my life.” My friend wants a different life and to be happy. We leave her house for a late walk, just before the sun rises and she sleeps. Her leg muscles are out of shape, so we cross the crossing slowly, too slowly, and the traffic light turns red. I start to run out of self-preservation, but when I get to the opposite bank, my friend is not with me. All around, a veil of white, sandy dust has covered the streets, making the crossing disappear. And my friend is standing there, in the middle of nowhere, as if stuck. Then, suddenly, she crouches on all fours on the white floor and begins to lick the dust, white sugar, that sadness.
Homepage Image: Terri and Jerri, 2018, from Gulf Coast Summer/Fall 2021, Issue 33.2.
