If the world was made of candy

If the world was made of candy,

I’d stick out my tongue to taste the sweetness in the air,

inhaling the sugary scent of powders and pastries with relish.

If the world was made of candy,

I would gallivant about the streets,

sliding my feet against the bouncy jello cobblestones and running my hands over the rough ginger walls.

If the world was made of candy,

I’d stumble through tall stalks of peppermint and delve into oceans spilling over with rich, brown, chocolate and abounding in rainbow gummy fish wriggling their fins and blowing lavender-colored bubbles until I could just skip of the purple-rimmed sea.

If the world was made of candy,

I’d watch from my round lollipop window tinted raspberry red as the flakes of icing settle over the quaint roofs lined with multi-colored gumdrops,

and I’d bound out the door to glance in awe at the white trimmed cottages and roads and trees, laughing as I crudely mold a sticky icing-man out of the gooey heaps.

Oh, if the world was made of candy,

goodness would be everywhere,

from the evening skies dotted with cotton-pink clouds to the flickering fireplace smelling of s'mores and more and more and more until both the plump stomachs and the ever-growing hearts would be full and a sort of satisfied aura would hang over all,

like the glistening skittle stars playing guard to the the round marshmallow moon.

They say too much sugar always spoils but if the world was made of candy,

sweet would never turn to sour,

joyful and giddy would never turn to dour,

and, no matter what, kindness and love would never, ever cease to flower,

if the world was made of candy

The Pink Macaron

It was a busy night in the Pink Macaron. Like most nights, crowds of important looking men and women swarmed the small street corner on Dreamlit avenue dressed in their Friday evening best, buzzing with chatter as they formed a crude line to the door of the most popular french restaurant in the history of french restaurants. It was everything a french restaurant should be; outside it had the look of a quaint stall at the market, or a pastry shop. A few clusters of shiny black tables and matching stools surrounded the restaurant, where several important looking couples in their Friday evening best sat sharing a bowl of Soupe à l'oignon, or a buttered and flaky croissant. Out of the roof jutted a sweet, pink and white lined cloth overhang, underneath of which was the dinging glass door, which, of course, was home to a very curly, very loopy lettered, Open sign. But the inside was far from quaint; it was grand and elegant and chic and everything a french restaurant should be. Suited waiters and waitresses danced around white cloth tables and refilled tiny glasses of blood red wine; guests laughed and fiddled with their mustaches and tried to sound french; and, of course, the chefs tasted and shouted, gesturing wildly to whoever was unfortunate enough to have made the dish. ‘More salt in the soup!’ ‘This needs a touch of paprika!’ ‘No, that’s far too much. You’ll have to make a new batch!’ But, most nefarious for their hollered corrections and belittling scoldings was none other than the head chef of the most popular french restaurant in the history of french restaurants himself, Chef Maxime. On that particular Friday night he was as bossy and imperious as ever, but his mind was not on the overly peppered Soupe à l'oignon, but the beautiful girl who was busy slaving away at the dishes piled so high he feared they would topple and smash her pretty face. “Hello, miss dish washer,” said Maxime, somewhat nervously fidgeting with his white apron. “I came to inquire about those dishes. Don’t you think that it is inevitable that they will fall?” He asked, eyeing the dishes with caution. The girl finally turned around, wiping her hands on her apron and shooting a barely detectable look of disgust at Maxime. “The name is Amanda,” She said through clenched teeth, “And seeing as I have had five years of experience washing these very dishes I think that I would know when they are coming dangerously close to toppling.” She finished, whipping a flyaway strand of her chestnut brown hair behind her ear and turning back to the pile. What a fool, thinks Maxime, blushing as red as it’s possible to go. Amanda, Amanda. That’s her name. Oh, so pretty sounding… but seeing as he was a very successful chef in a very successful restaurant, he did not give up. “Did you know that I’ve, um, this restaurant has two Michelin stars?” He finally settled on, patting the stitched stars on his apron proudly. “Yes I do know, considering that I work here.” She said, not bothering to look at him. “I really don’t mean to be rude,” She remarked rather rudely, “But can you please leave me be? I get paid per dish, you know.” “I don’t mean to be rude,” thought Maxime happily. That’s a step, isn’t it? He barked orders with more spirit than ever before and a smile on his face for the rest of the day.

Memories, they never go away

"If the kid that was you five years ago showed up in your bedroom today, what would you do with them? What would you tell them?"

It’s difficult to fathom, almost impossible to predict, the thoughts that would stream through my brain, the surprise that would break through my every understanding of science and magic and common sense- if my little, six-year-old self showed up in my bedroom today. Besides the utter shock and fear that would course through my veins, I would, of course, feel obliged to show some hospitality, perhaps invite her-me-Ellah to take a seat on my stuffed-animal-strewn bed. Maybe Ellah would gasp in recognition at the rainbow rabbit toy stuffed under my thick warm blanket or rush to the window, jaw dropped, as she gazes at the inky blue waves crashing mercilessly against the shore. Then she would, possibly, leap into my waiting arms and laugh and cry as she-we recall good days-and bad ones, the long nights-and short ones, and hours running in the sunshine and jumping in the puddles made by the rain that comes-and came-to us every spring, and know-we’ll know- that it, at least, will never change.

But soon, after sharing our fears and hopes and dreams, curious, stubborn little me will want to know about the future, about her future, about our future. And I’ll have to tell her. To warn her about a thing-a detail- a disease- That will change her-my-our lives. And I’ll inform her-I’ll whisper into her little ear- about the icy blizzard in our abdomen, the monstrous waves, the churning sea-Crohn’s. I’ll explain to her about those stomach aches she must be feeling, and she’ll sympathize, and I’ll talk to her about the medications-the tasty ones, and gross ones, the gummies and the pills, the Miralax and the Modulen. And I’ll help her, with a sad smile on my face, comprehend the sacrifices that come with staying healthy, the diet that she must strictly follow to prevent a war in her digestive system. I’ll inform her of the surgeries and the procedures, the pinpricks and the needles, the blood tests and the colonoscopies. I’ll explain the MRI to her, the seemingly interminable tunnel in which I spent hours waiting, waiting, waiting, holding my breath, then letting it out as the voice-that deep, reassuring voice- commands me to. And our mother, “tired” after sitting by my hospital bed jokingly noted, “Well, that was my worst day ever.” And, most importantly, I’ll tell six-year-old Ellah to be strong, to be strong for our dad, strong for our mom, strong for our little sister, strong for us. Because being strong-It’s the farthest thing that I needed to be as a six-year-old. Strong was something foreign, like lifting weights. Strong was a superhero that could carry school buses. Strong was someone-a person that could hoist me up, up, up on their shoulders. Strong used to be something you could see from the outside, but little did I know that strong was something that I needed within-something that I needed to be.

Then I’ll take her chubby little hand and she’ll grasp my finger tightly, and I’ll guide her gently but surely to a polished wooden shelf stretching up, up, up, stuffed with stories and tales of mystery and suspense and happiness and love. And she will tilt her head back, a familiar expression dawning her youthful face, expressing the pleasure of gazing at the rows and rows of books from her short vantage point. And I-I would fill my hands with novels and poems for little Ellah to reach for, tales for her to devour and study and read, one by one. She’ll smile, sitting in my lap, as she inhales the scent of paper from the pages of those little fairy tales I used to like; she likes; and frown, confused, as I show her Little Women and Harry Potter and Jane Eyre, titles I know she’ll-eventually-grow to treasure as much as I do now, titles, I want her to treasure as much as I do now, to expose her to different genres and reading levels. She’ll look at me, with my own, wide brown eyes and see me as a fortune teller from a myth she has heard, and I would see her as a time traveler from a book I had read, both viewing each other-ourselves with curiosity we usually reserve only for the many books that line the shelves.

I could not have let her go-could not have brought myself to release her without a final treat, a parting memory to be made. I’ll escort her to a large glass door and push it open with a ding, stepping into a crowded, noisy shop. She’ll cover her ears but gasp as she sees the tables stuffed with falafel and hummus and pitas and greens. She’ll drag me to the spread, mouth watering, eyes wide. As we take a seat, I’ll grab a pita, carefully spread the hummus on its fluffy white inside, and stuff it with cucumber and tomato salad, pickles, and, of course, two round falafels. And I’ll place it in her waiting hands and watch-watch as she pops the falafels into her mouth and rips off slices from the fresh white bread-watch, watch as she munches the salad with a grin and grabs a new pita from a stack, smearing it with babaganoush. I’ll watch wistfully as she licks the last of the hummus off her round fingers and wish that whatever magic that had brought little Ellah here could give me just a little bite-but I know it won’t, it never will, and as I lay eyes upon my little self once more, my stomach would suddenly fill, my head playing and replaying a memory of me-six years old-munching on a pita falafel. And I would smile, comforted by the fact that memories never go away.

Of all the things I would have told myself-all the sights I would have taken my younger self to see-all the books I would have let little Ellah read-all the hints I could ever give her about her future-I would hope that she would come away with this: Although food is not forever, and books are not forever, and even though Crohn’s is forever-memories last even longer, boil even stronger; memories of books, or food, or moments, or hours, or days, or nights-so vivid that you can almost-almost relieve those minutes of reading a thrilling tale in a hammock, slowly, slowly swinging; or that last bit of hummus you lick off your nose; or maybe the sensation of the sand in between your toes, the waves licking your ankles-- these precious memories should be cherished, Little Ellah, in their own library stretching from here into the starry night sky wobbling as it reaches the moon. Because, memories, they never go away. Oh, those priceless memories, they matter more than anything else.

❤️ A huge thanks to my english teacher for encouraging me to write and coming up with this incredible prompt.