on distance. and color. and candy.

I speak young, but don't sound like a child. I catapult from words to sentences precociously. My mother speaks to me as if I am an adult, especially since my father is so often away on business. Even though her family is just next door.

Each time he goes, we pack for him--the green fold-over that holds his business suits, and another bag for his necessities. My mother gives me candy to hide in the bag--Peanut Chews, Twizzlers, and Chuckles. I separate them so he doesn't find them all at once. Lots of little surprises are better than just one.

In time, I am allowed to roller-skate to the corner store to buy the candy myself. "You know the ones to get," my mother tells me. I tuck the money into a skate. She leans over the fence and watches me go.

I don't like the way the Chuckles are arranged in the package. Red, yellow, black, orange, green: ugly. Why would they do this? It should be red, orange, yellow, green, blue--a rainbow, like my bedspread. But there are no blue Chuckles. There should be a blue one, and it should taste like the blue raspberry in the rainbow Italian ices. But the black one is his favorite. If I can find the black licorice-flavored Twizzlers, I buy those.

I add notes and drawings, pages ripped out of my coloring books, carefully shaded with my Crayolas. The blues are my favorites. Blue, blue-green, green-blue. My best friend in kindergarten, Marie-Elena, decides we must each have a favorite crayon, but we can't have the same favorite. She gets blue-green; I get green-blue. Blue-green is really my favorite, but I let her think it can be hers. I don't bother to tell her that she can't change my mind.

I don't ask my father if he gets mad at the black Chuckle like I do, for taking the place of a blue one, though I want to. His eyes are blue. Maybe that's why he doesn't seem to care that there's no blue one. Maybe he thinks it would be like eating his eyes.