Lollipop Epiphany

Laura Grace Weldon

Word Count 625

Jennifer took the second-to-last lollipop in the bag, the root beer one, leaving me the green one. Lime was her least favorite flavor. Mine too. I stuck it in my mouth anyway, pretended to flick open a lighter, and held that invisible flame to the end of my lollipop stick. Jennifer did the same, exhaling around the side just like teenagers did with real cigarettes. 

Like all the other fifth-grade girls we knew, she and I exaggerated. When we walked, we went on for “miles.” When we were thirsty, we drank “gallons.” So of course, she said her older sister Mary Beth would “die” if she found out that we were listening to her records. Happy to be playing in Jennifer’s basement; dying was the last thing on my mind.  

Jennifer put a stack of singles on the turntable, and we danced, whirling around as we sang along with The Archies’ “Sugar Sugar,” Marvin Gaye’s “I Heard It Through The Grapevine” and Three Dog Night’s “Eli’s Comin.”    

Suddenly, what was left of the lollipop I’d been sucking on separated from its cardboard stick. It hurtled to the back of my throat and lodged in my windpipe. I couldn’t breathe. 

For long moments I panicked. My arms flailed as I tried to draw a breath, make a sound, get Jennifer’s attention.  

The music played on, and Jennifer danced on, completely oblivious. Time lost meaning as I looked around me. Everywhere there were details I’d never noticed. The texture of the painted cement block walls, the colors of a crocheted blanket tossed over a worn couch, the beauty of my friend’s face. It was all tender perfection. 

A kind of knowing filled me. Even as my vision dimmed and the room darkened, my awareness expanded. Without making any choice at all, I gave in. It was simple as sinking into peace. Just past letting go was a sort of bliss. The body ready to fall no longer seemed like my own.   

The last image flickering in my consciousness was my mother’s face. That glimpse activated something I still can’t explain. Although my mind no longer seemed connected to my limbs, the strangest sensation came into my legs. Instead of dropping me to the floor, those legs churned up the stairs. I was outside myself, watching as I wavered at the door to the kitchen, nearly falling backward. 

Jennifer’s mother appeared. She took one look at my blue face and bulging eyes, turned me upside down, and shook me. She smacked me on the back, hard and repeatedly. The lime green Dum Dum rolled across the floor. 

I gasped.

I had no words to fit the moment. So like any other dramatic child, I said, “My mom will be SO mad!” 

Jennifer’s mother told me to be more careful about dancing with candy in my mouth. Jennifer put on another record. I pretended to go on as if it was still an ordinary day. 

When I got home, my mother was upset in the worst way. Not angry, but hurt. Jennifer’s mother had called to tell her about the incident, including the first thing I said after my life was saved. “Why would you say that?” my mother asked. “Why?” I scrunched my hand in my pocket, a finger exploring a hole in the fabric. Hand-me-downs always had holes in the pockets. Nothing I could say would make it better. I didn’t have words for what I’d really meant.

“I don’t know,” I said. “It just popped out.”   

I never told her or anyone else the last thing I glimpsed back in that basement. Unable to breathe, I saw my mother already grieving my death. No exaggeration. That moment woke me to the rest of my life. 

*

Laura lives in an Ohio township too small for traffic lights. She works as a book editor, teaches writing workshops, and maxes out her library card each week. Laura served as Ohio’s 2019 Poet of the Year and is the author of four books. She never once bought lollipops for her kids.