the purple road of grief

In a land not far away at all, there lived a boy who liked purple lollipops. They reminded him of water with Kool-Aid mix, something his mother used to make for him on Sundays as a treat. But when his mother disappeared, his father was too wrapped up in grief to recall the Sunday morning ritual. So, he settled for the grape lollipops that his teacher sometimes handed out.

His teacher liked to hand out lollipops to the students who showed the most effort in their work. Even if a student hadn’t gotten perfect on their science project or spelling quiz, she knew who tried their best. If the student had shown progress and that they really tried, they got a treat. For the boy, that meant he had to really care about something again; a characteristic not learned from his useless father.

Every Friday, this boy took his spelling test with a nicely sharpened pencil and an even sharper focus to ensure his success. While his teacher called out each vocabulary word, three times each, the boy attempted to spell the words correctly.

“Adapt” she would say.

“A-d-t-p” he would write.

“Adapt” she would repeat.

The boy would erase his original attempt and rewrite the word, “a-d-p-a-t”.

“Adapt” she would articulate for the last time.

The boy would erase his second attempt and rewrite the word for the last time, “a-p-t-d-a”.

This intense process would continue for the following nine words. Each time the boy vigorously erased his answer, he would become increasingly focused until his paper was close to translucent. As each word was announced, his teacher’s heart would sink further and further at the sight of the boy’s immense dedication but utter failure.

When the students were let out of school for the weekend, his teacher would sit at her desk, take a deep breath, and begin the gruesome process of decoding. While the boy had all the appropriate letters per word announced, his page looked more like alphabet soup still being stirred.

Dyslexia is alphabet soup with the aggressiveness of a laughing toddler mixing the bowl. But this boy liked purple lollipops, not soup. And his father liked a harsher type of liquid than chicken noodle. And this teacher saw the determination and heart of a boy who just wanted to get something right.

So, for every word incorrectly spelled that had all the right letters present, the boy got half a point. For every spelling test, writing assignment, etc., the boy would get half a mark.

Every Monday when the class had their graded work returned to them, the teacher would walk around handing out the treats. When it was his turn, the boy would dig in the bag for a purple lollipop. He knew he tried his best, and quite frankly so did his teacher.

But on one particular Monday after a particularly hard weekend at the boy's home, there were no purple lollipops in the bag though, only green and red. So, the boy retracted his hand and laid it on his lap; grieving.

~~~

Thank you for taking the time to read this short story of mine. It was something I had written quite some time ago, for a micro fiction collection I had intended to publish. Each story in the collection was under 200 words, often times even under 100. This story though, was titled "Extra Parts" and followed the same theme of the rest of the stories: life doesn't negotiate for you.

Maybe one day though, that collection will finally be printed and published. And maybe one day, the boy will receive a purple lollipop and more than half marks in school.

Maybe.

Or maybe not.

We'll just have to hope.