Bubblegum
by Hayley Knapik
I brought you a present, nothing
terribly extravagant or romantic
but I knew that it would make you smile
(and I would argue
that the sight of your smile
is more extravagant
than diamond or dove).
You opened it like it was Christmas morning,
tearing at the foil wrapper
as though you couldn’t
get it off fast enough.
The bag advertised “scented” on the front,
prompting you to lift it to your nose.
You said it smelled like something
drawn from the recesses of the childhood
that you haven’t visited in years.
You prompted me, then,
and I lit up inside
as the scent beckoned me
back in time
taking root in my mind,
tapping insistently at the door
of a memory long retired.
My youth answered, pulling the door back just enough
to squint at the visitor and say,
“How do I know you?”
It knew the scent in passing,
scattered between
the must of dusty fields
and the sweetness of red slushies
that tasted like victory.
The scent that carried
the most determined little girl
through bouts of defeat,
coated with sugar and the sensation
of being just like the men in the big leagues on T.V.,
spitting their chewing tobacco in-between plays
as though they had not a single care
in the world.
It was the scent that my mother insisted would rot my teeth
when she found out my father had bought it for me
at the concession stand;
it was the scent of not caring,
as most children didn’t,
because all the great athletes
had rotting teeth, anyway.
by Hayley Knapik
I brought you a present, nothing
terribly extravagant or romantic
but I knew that it would make you smile
(and I would argue
that the sight of your smile
is more extravagant
than diamond or dove).
You opened it like it was Christmas morning,
tearing at the foil wrapper
as though you couldn’t
get it off fast enough.
The bag advertised “scented” on the front,
prompting you to lift it to your nose.
You said it smelled like something
drawn from the recesses of the childhood
that you haven’t visited in years.
You prompted me, then,
and I lit up inside
as the scent beckoned me
back in time
taking root in my mind,
tapping insistently at the door
of a memory long retired.
My youth answered, pulling the door back just enough
to squint at the visitor and say,
“How do I know you?”
It knew the scent in passing,
scattered between
the must of dusty fields
and the sweetness of red slushies
that tasted like victory.
The scent that carried
the most determined little girl
through bouts of defeat,
coated with sugar and the sensation
of being just like the men in the big leagues on T.V.,
spitting their chewing tobacco in-between plays
as though they had not a single care
in the world.
It was the scent that my mother insisted would rot my teeth
when she found out my father had bought it for me
at the concession stand;
it was the scent of not caring,
as most children didn’t,
because all the great athletes
had rotting teeth, anyway.