Lollipop

Lint-rolled lollipops are delicious.

There’s absolutely no other satisfaction when you take your “Cherry flavored” lollipop at a low price of 3.99 a bag from Walmart and gnaw it (rebelling from your mother is the best way to get cavities and fulfill your hunger), and drop it on the floor of your crust covered Honda Civic, as starting fights is the number one thing siblings are for.

You make an “I’ll kill you” face at your sibling (whether or not they notice,) because your mother doesn’t allow “potty words”. 

Going against the tightening strain of the cursed seatbelt, your grubby hands reach for the lollipop. It’s not enough. You would love to brag that the candy was at your fingertips, but alas, you are missing a good foot and a half before you reach the ground.

Damn this safe prison seat.

You look back at your sibling, who is staring densely at the phone screen. You give her another “I’ll kill you” face for good measure. 

You say your mother’s superhero call (“mom,”) multiple times, until she sighs (which is a clear sign that she is ready to come to your rescue) and turns around.

“What is it, David?” 

Here’s your cue. 

“Lollipop! Lollipop!” You say, pointing at your sister (you need to set up a clear accusation) and then the floor, where your candy is resting.

You hope that you gave your mother enough details, since there is no more story to continue on, and the lollipop is still not in your hands. 

Your mother sighs again. She gives you the eyes. That pitiful gleam that leads you to wonder whether the sympathy is for you or her. 

“What am I going to do with you?”

The words do not comfort you whatsoever. 

Good god. Save my lollipop!

It has now been a couple minutes since you have lost your candy. 

Your mother then picks up the thing, (The vibrant, red color of the lollipop is now speckled with grays and browns and even some long strands of blonde.) 

“I blame my sister for this!” You want to tell her. However, you know that your attempts will go unnoticed because your mother’s gaze is locked with the lollipop. She is inspecting it, but there is no need. It’s obvious that it's a piece of candy, it is your piece of candy, and you are growing impatient as the seconds tick. You gaze longingly at the cherry lollipop, stuck between the tips of your mother’s fingers. 

The fingers promptly start moving again. Good. 

Only, it seems to be moving in the wrong direction.

Your mother’s long fingers (much longer and bigger than yours, darn it,) is laced around the lollipop and, from your “eagle eye” viewpoint on the baby car seat, the hand and your precious cherry lollipop is heading towards the plastic bag curled underneath her feet.

This is not good news whatsoever. What is your mother thinking? You’ve only ever seen things go into that dreadful gray plastic bag when they are finished with - (such as water bottles that no longer harbor water, books that have been “improved” by your disgusting sibling during the car ride, and your leftover PB&J crusts.) 

It's a part of the car that your parents call “The Trash.” 

Your mother couldn’t be putting your candy into that bag, could she? 

“Twash?” You ask your mother, trying to believe that your mom will smile, shake her head, and assure you, “of course not,” as if you’ve made the funniest joke.

“Yes, David.” Your mother says, not bothering to look at you. Her hand is now inches away from the trash bag. 

“Twash!” You scream, wiggling in your seat. Once more, you have fallen victim to the horrendous seatbelt. 

“Yes baby, trash,” Your mother says, seemingly agreeing with you. Does she not hear your cry for help? You will not tolerate such behavior. 

“Twash! No!” You try to lunge, try to grab the lollipop you worked so hard to make so tiny and small and smooth and sparkly (although the sparkle was lost long ago when your idiot sister dropped it.) 

But it's too late. All that effort seems like nothing to your cruel mother. She, without even flinching, relinquishing your prized possession. 

You wicked woman!

You cannot believe what your mother has just done.

Have you no shame?

Sadness and pity, for yourself and the now lost lollipop, gathers in your eyes and starts to slowly make its journey down your face. You know that an avalanche of sadness is coming, and don’t want to make any effort towards stopping it.

Your mother notices this too, and shows alarm. Maybe she feels guilty, or regrets her decisions.

“Oh god, no… Not another one,” Your mother is now frantic, searching for something in her bag.

What do you think you’re going to find in there? You want to ask. You just threw away my life’s work and now you think you can magically restore it? 

Your anger is all built up. Your body is trembling, and the only thing that probably restrains you from popping out of your seat is the damn seatbelt. 

I hate everything!  You think, cursing this car and the world. What did you do to deserve this pain?

You continue to fume. Now your pent up anger and tears are bubbling towards the breaking point. You open your mouth, and squeeze your eyes shut.

You’ve made a grave mistake, mother! You warn her using your eyes, which are crowding with all the kicking, screaming, and distressed bawling to follow in the following minute.

“Here, honey, here!” Your mother almost throws her hand towards the back of the car, reaching out as quickly as she can. You don’t care much for any of that, because suddenly, you notice the object tightly gripped in your mother’s trembling hand.

A new, (less shiny) piece of unwrapped candy.

You were wrong. Terribly wrong. It was not she who had made a mistake, it was you for ever doubting her intentions. How neglectful you had been! She was not a wicked woman here to inflict pain, but a savior. 

She reaches out to you and blesses you with the repeated joy of receiving another candy. This time, it is watermelon flavored. 

So it’ll be a diverse meal, you think. You are grateful for her thoughtfulness. 

You are now incredibly satisfied. You even begin to like the seatbelt.

It’s like a little hug, you decide. A bit tight, but we all do love tight hugs. 

Feeling generous, you glance at your sister’s screen, wondering what she is watching. 

Life is good.

“That! That!” You exclaim, clapping your hands excitedly. Although clueless when it comes to actually identifying what the “that” is, you still laugh whenever she laughs to keep up with her. 

However, despite your efforts, she completely ignores you. She only interacts with you to tell you, with a firm voice much like your mother’s,

“Stop it!” 

Stop? You pause. You think about the depth of those words. Is she 

“That! That!” You tell her once more, reaching out with your stubby arms and tapping her screen. Now you are putting your absolute best into enjoying the show with her - going this extra mile must make her enjoy your company now.

Instead of being met with the same generous kindness you had blessed her with, she contradicts all of your efforts. All of a sudden, her head swiftly turns, and her arm is heading towards yours.

“Stop it!” She nudges you back over to your seat. 

It’s more of a push, you would say to anyone who listens. You were being so kind and generous and you even watched her show with her, but that ungrateful sibling of yours tried to bring you down.

Thankfully, you didn’t receive any injuries. However, when your sister aggressively banished you back to your seat, she smacked your hand away - the hand gripping your most prized possession.

You look at the floor, already stained a bit pink from the previous catastrophe. 

The candy you worked so hard to receive again, to return to its wondrous round and glossy pink globe, is laying on the floor.

Lint rolled lollipops are delicious.