a children’s fair pops up
at the outdoor mall near my cousins’ house in Montreal
and the maple sugaring stand,
propped cheerily in the center of childhood chaos,
delights me as much as it does my cousins’ kids.
drawn in by the smell of maple syrup,
the kids and i make our way to the lumberjack of a man wearing a red flannel
(i call him ‘the gardener’)
who tends to a wooden planter filled with shaved-ice soil.
he pours sap into neat rows,
then pots popsicle sticks into the syrupy pools.
the gardener smiles at his handiwork,
then gestures at me as if to say pick your own poppy!
i take hold of a popsicle stick stem
and make it twirl.
the syrup’s tacky texture catches at cold rubble.
jagged ice shards poke through the translucent taffy and sunlight trickles through the gold glass.
the popsicle turns into its full form:
honey-colored crystalline.
when i finally bring the popsicle to my mouth,
my tongue stings brightly.
the taste is delicious.
the musky flavor of maple is almost savory,
but this only plays a low note
in the saccharine song of processed sweetness.
the mouthfeel, however, is confounding.
liquid drips from a congealed core
and two textures (thin and thick) entangle,
confuse my teeth.
while maple-flavored water floods my tongue,
syrupy goo latches onto the back of my molars.
i lick too far above my top lip
and cringe at the vision of a maple syrup mustache.
i contemplate whether this was a good idea or not.
because the feeling of sticky fingers and glaceéd lips nauseates me.
plus, Montreal’s spring break is not spring at all
but stinging snow chill under the guise of a mislabeled season,
slicing at vulnerable cheeks and wet lips.
here i am, letting the culprit melt down my throat.
but the kids crave it,
used to the gummy mouthfeel
familiar with the feeling of snowflakes on their tongues.
so when i finish my first popsicle
i guide the kids to the back of the line
and wait for seconds.