There it was: the box I hadn’t noticed
since I was a kid,
sitting on the shelf between similar
but less familiar snacks.
The red, yellow, blue of the front
the same from years ago,
along with the slender string
for a handle.
Arriving home, I poured a generous glass
of two percent milk
and went to sit at the dining room table,
exactly the way I used to
enjoy the crackers when I was a boy,
in between games
of tag and hide-and-seek
with my sister.
Opening the thin cardboard of the box,
and then the bag,
I finally caught the slightest whiff of vanilla,
and I could again hear
my sister counting down from thirty
as I tried to find
the best place
to hide from her
(which was the usually-empty cupboard
below the kitchen sink, in case you’re wondering).
With the warmth of the spring sun
trickling in through the cracks in the blinds,
I submerged the first cracker,
a giraffe, in the cold milk,
waiting for it to become a bit soggy
like I had always preferred.
Taking the initial bite,
I allowed the pieces of the animal
to rest on my tongue, savoring
the subtle sweetness of the cracker
harmonizing with the creaminess
of the milk.
I then proceeded to consume
the remaining circus
of graham animals in one sitting,
enjoying the memories
they had brought back to me,
as I, now twenty-five years old,
reveled in the simple pleasures
of being a child,
for part of an hour.