It’s funny what brings memories back. Earlier this week after a too-long day at work, the packaged treats at QT were calling my name. Literally calling my name. And I answered the call. If you’re going to ruin your appetite for dinner you might as well do it enjoying a Diet Cherry Coke and a monster-sized fruity krispy treat from a gas station. I was tired and burnt out and hungry and sugar was right in front of me, luring me in.
As soon as I bit into that sweet treat I was transported to weekends spent at my grandpa’s home twenty years ago. I could see myself sitting at the high bar in the kitchen eating Fruity Pebbles for breakfast. Yet I don’t actually remember doing that. Instead, I can only feel it, unsure if my brain and memories were playing tricks on me, because the only breakfast foods I associate with those weekends or my grandpa are bear claws. It seemed we typically stopped at Hardester’s on the way up for last minute items, including packages of danishes and bear claws. Or maybe we only stopped once, or maybe we never stopped at all. The more I think back, the less I know. Decades have merged memories.
I ate the entire krispy treat, and with each delicious bite I could feel the easy carefree days of youth. The days spent on the lake shore, the heat of the sun mixed with the scent of sun lotion. The cool quietness of an air conditioned house. Long evenings outside, the smell of charcoal, day turning to dusk turning to night. It was something foreign yet familiar at the same time; something almost there but not quite. All because of a fruity krispy treat.