• mahoganyculture

SNOWCONE


THE STING FROM THE SALT WATER ON MY LIPS,

I CRAVED THE COMFORT OF SWEET CONDENSED MILK.

WIND BLOWING THE BEADS OF WATER OFF MY BODY,

GOOSEBUMPS RISING LIKE THE WAVES BEHIND ME.


LITTLE CHILDREN WITH SNOT RUNNING DOWN THEIR NOSES

A BOY WITH A TOWEL WRAPPED CAREFULLY AROUND HIS BODY BY HIS GRANDMOTHER WHO WAS TAKING CARE OF HIM OVER SUMMER,

“GRANNY, I WANT A SNOW CONE!”

“JAMAL, IT IS LUNCH TIME AND YUH HAVE TO GO HOME AND EAT WHAT I COOKED FUH YOU.”

I FELT GUILTY AS HIS BEADY EYES LOOKED UP AT ME AS I LINED UP BY THE SNOW CONE MAN.


“WHO’S NEXT?” THE OLD MAN LOOKED AROUND AT THE PEOPLE GATHERED AROUND HIM.

BEES SWARMED AROUND THE SYRUP DRIPPING FROM THEIR CONTAINER.

“COCONUT WITH CONDENSED MILK” I SAID.

I GAZED WITH ANTICIPATION AS HE SCOOPED THE ICE IN TO THE CUP,

ONE SCOOP, TWO SCOOPS, THREE.

THE SOUND OF CRUSHING ICE BRINGING BACK MEMORIES OF AFTER SCHOOL, AS A CHILD.

HE THEN PERFECTED THE DOME SHAPED TOP WHICH WOULD RECEIVE THE CONDENSED MILK AFTER PUMPS OF COCONUT SYRUP.


LARGE JEALOUS BEES BUZZED AROUND HIS STEADY HAND AS THE CONDENSED MILK FLOW FROM THE CAN.

I TOOK THE SNOW CONE IN EXCHANGE FOR MY TWO DOLLAR BILL AND FIFTY CENTS

THE SALT ON MY LIPS NOW REPLACED WITH A SWEET TASTE OF THE ONLY PLACE I CALL HOME.


Written by Zoe Osborne


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