Something Sour
A boy’s Saturday is riddled with tiny disasters, until he finds a way to make it sweeter.
Yawning, a little boy woke from a deep night’s sleep. He tiptoed to the kitchen, the tile floor cold beneath his feet in the morning light. Making his way down the hall, he dragged a sack of lemons behind him, the fruits thudding down the old staircase. He didn’t really understand why they gave him comfort, but wherever he went, the child took the lemons with him.
In a hurry to catch the Saturday morning cartoons, he poured himself a bowl of sugary cereal. He yanked open the refrigerator with a gust of cold air rushing across his rosy cheeks and making him giggle. Carefully, he lifted a carton half full of milk, and in an effort to pour it into the bowl of breakfast, the boy’s hand slipped. A sheet of milk splashed across the granite countertops and spread across the floor. The poor boy’s sleeves darkened with milk, and he bitterly reached into his sack of lemons. He pulled a wedge out, and began to suck on it. The colors of his cereal and the thrill of cartoons faded from his mind until all he could think about was the sour sting in his mouth.
A few hours passed, and the boy went to take his afternoon nap. But his sleep was rudely interrupted by a clamor at the front door. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled out of his room and down the hall. His mother had invited the neighbors over for tea, and they had brought a beast with them. This beast was coated in matted brown fur, and slobbered wherever he went. It was a ponderous creature, panting clumsily and beating its oversized tail against the walls. The child had made up his mind to remain blissfully ignorant of this impolite guest, and began to read his comics.
When they finally left, the boy closed his book. He looked up and saw that his favorite stuffed animal, a fluffy white rabbit, had been attacked. The rabbit’s wool was caked with foul-smelling spit, a seam had split and cotton stuffing was everywhere, and its dainty blue bow was shredded down to crinkled thread. The boy, once again, reached into his pouch, and shoved a lemon into his tiny mouth. As he bit into the leathery peel, his face twisted as the tart concentrate dripped down his chin.
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The last bits of sunlight were stretching across the horizon, and the boy’s mother pushed him out of the house to go and play. Brow furrowed and arms crossed, the child marched off the porch in search of something to do. At the foot of the house’s driveway sat a shallow puddle brimming with rainwater. Mildly interested, the child squatted before the water and began to drop pebbles in, listening intently for the plunks they made.
The boy was so focused that he did not care to look up at the car coming down the road. As it drove past, the wheel rolled over the far end of the puddle, breaking the child’s concentration. The muddy water leapt onto the boy, leaving him drenched and shivering. The sun had almost gone. He turned his back to the road, and as he dragged his feet down the drive, his hair was heavy with dripping liquid. The water drops began to mix with his tears, as his bottom lip quivered and his breaths became shaky. All the joy the morning had promised slipped from his grasp.
He plopped down at the foot of the stairs, wrapped tightly in a pale grey towel, and quietly cried. Suddenly, the sound of clunking turned his attention to his feet. In all the commotion, his sack of lemons had spilled and were rolling across the wooden floorboards of the living room. Slowly, the boy picked up a bumpy, yellow ball and stared at it. He was inclined to take a gaping bite of the thing, but refrained. He was exhausted; all the tears in his body had been emptied out. The child had decided he did not want to cry anymore.
Sniffling and wiping his eyes, he picked the lemons up off the floor. Once he had his hands full, he waddled back to the kitchen counter, careful not to spill any. The little boy took out a pitcher of water, a jar of sugar, and poured it into a glass. He spilled water all over the countertop, but paid no mind to it. As he dropped cubes of sugar into the mixture, his hands became sticky with sweet residue. It became difficult to touch things without them gluing to him, but he simply licked the syrup off his fingers and continued. He squeezed every last one of his lemons into his concoction, seeds and all. Once he was finished, he took a step back, admiring his masterpiece.
He slowly lifted the drink and took a sip. Sugar crumbs clung to his cheeks. A small grin cracked at the corner of his mouth.
The little boy rushed up the rickety stairs to take a hot shower, washing the dirt of the driveway off. He took his stuffed animal to his father, and had it stitched with a new blue ribbon. As he went back to his living room with the drink in hand, he turned the television on to the cartoon reruns. The lemons were still sour, and in no way was the mess he made any better than the rest of his day.
This time, he did not reach for a lemon.
