800
gumballs lived in a glass container
on the front counter of the little corner
store in the small Western Pennsylvanian
town I grew up in for years.
Don’t ask
me how I know there were 800, I just do.
I am as sure of that number as I am
of my name.
These gumballs were not for sale, not part
of some promotional contest.
They were
just sitting there for show, a useless colorful
display that plagued my childhood. My still-
developing mind could not make sense of all
that waste, all those wonderful, unchewed
gumballs collecting dust.
I stared at them for years, from all angles
as I grew. I waited
for their great mystery
to be revealed. But
the store was sold, torn down,
replaced with a slick new 7-11. Everyone rejoiced
at the improved convenience, the always (over) stocked
shelves.
I resented the fancy neon sign and its clutter-less
counters. They mocked
me, along with the ghost
of that gumball-filled jar, its absence laughing
from my memory.
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