Vanndale in the late ‘00s
Sarah Watkins
they shut down the store that used to sell candy cigarettes—
Lucky Lights, little packs of 10—
and that’s when I’d say the not-town died:
on a hot summer day, nursing sores from too much artificially sweet chalk,
not too long before our grandfather passed away
from lung cancer and heart disease.
it’s still there, the little store that had the yellow lights spotted with bug shadows,
as you turn the curve coming from the real town,
ivy licking its way up its side, windows milky but still intact,
the white paint made beige by the caked-on dust.
driving by, I cannot remember what the name of the store was,
but I can see my childhood in vivid sepia,
can remember the saccharine grit of the candy cigarettes,
pretending to be our grandfather with the sticks between our chubby fingers,
the browns and yellows of humid summers spent drinking from water hoses
and catfishing with live bait in the pond Dad dug in my too-big mudboots
to the soundtrack of classic country from the wind-up radio
while the sloppy scent of algae and dirt and burning sun wafted up to our noses
as we waited to see if Momma
would buy us another pack.