Monday, December 28, 2009

Frying

Treasured box and the little Amish girl that is feeding a blade of grass to a cross-eyed goat. His handsome gray beard flies in the direction of her hair and floating pollen allergies. The goat and the girl, still guarding candied imports that I no longer remember the taste of. I rowdily rip the felt off the insides, sniffing eagerly.

Sitting on the awkwardly balanced moped, I stare at the rider in the round hornlike mirrors. Handsome. Drrr!

I break the stray chewed blackout candle in half and light the wick on one, sitting it in a puddle of its own drips. I pause to pick between the felt-less box and the goat-girl lid. Her smile hits me in the shins. Like it were of a happiness that wasn’t for me to bite into. I upturn the lid, and wait for the girl to fall off. With the goat.

In wobbly kicks, I set my slippers flying and rock the moped. Oh stop whinnying, you steed!

Magical sprinkles of expertly grated wax, that melts as they touch the heating lid. I goat-stripped my grandmother’s plant and dropped them in.

Oh the pedals! I whirr them this way and that; one leg down and the other comes up. Faster and faster!

Bubbly leaves pop like poppadoms.

The chains decide to slickly sliver off my right toe-nail. I wait until I can run to my grandmother’s arms to cry, as she boils the overtly chlorinated city water in a stainless steel bowl and fries gramp’s glass syringe and menacing needle for my painkiller shot. “Just two minutes!” and the smell of sanitizing alcohol, dyed pink.

Wax fried basil and the charred candy girl’s smile.

Post summer fake limp at school and shared recipes.

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

I congratulate, the remarkable answer...

Aswini said...

ranga ranga too :P