Candy


When I was growing up,
she always brought me candy:
big truffles in shiny waxed wrappers,
lollipops that barely fit in my mouth,
caramels shaped like a generic fish.

She would stop by our house
on her way home from work,
wearing a tired face and a
black shawl she'd made herself.

Hearing her old, gentle voice,
I would dash out into the lobby;
She'd reach into her apron pocket
and rain candy from her fingers,
right into the palms of my hands,
which I squeezed together like a beggar,
eager not to lose a single sweet drop.

I was thirteen, when Mary died.
Sometime later, I realized that
she was stealing that candy
from the store she was working at.
I felt strange and confused,
but I wasn't mad at her at all.

Ten years later, I still miss my
Robin-Hooding sugar fairy.
My teeth are full of fillings,
but I am not bitter towards her.
And sometimes at night,
she comes to me in a dream,
raining caramels and truffles, whispering
There you go.
There you go.