Burdened down with grownup folly, I round the corner of adulthood and it hits me:
Those bright memories of eternal elixir encased in tiny bottles of wax, and tubes of frozen joy squeezed into a sticky summer evening.
Rising up before me, stacks of thirst-seeking missiles wait inside the cold cocoons of my grandfather’s soda pop machine.
Once more, I would happily follow that grinning pitcher of Kool into the fires of dental decay for a taste of way too much white sugar.
And then my whiff is done, taunted by the snap of bubblegum I was never allowed to chew. Bereft, I want to go home and watch cartoons.
Visited by the ghost of a thousand childhoods.