Dots

I stare at the dozen dots on the cheeks of Wendy's picture on the cup of coke. Her red hair. She must be Irish. Her freckles. She must be white. Her silky white skin that blended in the snow colored cup--cold and icey. Her pony tails. She's so much like the girls at my elementary school.

I could still remember my first crush. Her name was Melanie who also had these dozen dots on her cheeks. Before she moved away, she had promised me to bring turkish delites to school for me to try. Our class had gotten done with the book "Narnia" and I had no idea what those British candies were. My child mind conjured up turkeys, Thanksgiving, Indians, and Pocahontas after I had read about it. Of course, my ESL-mind was wrong. I was always corrected not by people, but by myself. I would think things, have preconceptions, then get corrected later on by experiencing, see, hearing, feeling. That was how I learned as a child. And I still learn that way even up to today.

Melanie never came back. Melanie never brought those turkish delites for me to try. Even though I knew she was going to be gone forever, I still waited. This was my first experience with "longing". I still have never tried turkish delite. Whenever turkish delite comes up, I think of this memory. I think of my initial preconceptions of what they were. I think of her generosity. This could be Thanksgiving. I was the Indian and she was the white settler. I had no idea what this British treat was and she was willing to let me into her world. It never happened.

Perhaps, I should offer some of my things to others too. I should make it happen