finally
some
fiction
A Late-Life Crisis
4
Many months ago, I came to a late-in-life crisis, unusual for my temperament, unexpected for my age, and unsettling particularly for my soul.
I’ve never been known for my smarts. I’m no dimwit; it just takes a kind amount of time for me to process a piece of information. And then it’s not too long before that information evaporates if I don’t tie it down, which is to say, Keep It In Mind. What does Keep It In Mind mean, anyway? If something enters the mind, presumably by way of one of the five senses, couldn’t it be assumed it would stay there? Have we more senses we’re unaware of, perhaps that conspire to dissolve, extract, conceal, combust or leak stored information from our mind?
It’s fair to say I’m much more known for my compassion. With pride but without conceit, I can declare myself a positive soul who gives with cheerfulness, good will and heart-felt kindness. It’s only fair that I am, when my position has me judge others by the same merit.
Somewhere between my lack of wisdom and my abundance for appreciating things, I find myself to be a muddled student of worldly affairs. As I said, the knowledge of a thing does not necessarily come easily and it certainly doesn’t stay often, but in the department of effort and thoroughness I can affirm a generous respect for being informed on global matters.
easily and it certainly doesn’t stay often, but in the department of effort and thoroughness I can affirm a generous respect for being informed on global matters.
This is why the simplest of sentiments by one of my elves so suddenly stunned me, splitting my mind into fractions of philosophical avenues, all whirling away from the comfort of knowing that I’m a good person.
“I much prefer the larger marshmallows,” noted Clyde in a warm tone expressing gratitude.
On a whim he had asked to try a standard-sized marshmallow in his mug of hot cocoa instead of the smaller variety that’s always been reserved for the elves. I looked to Mrs. Claus with great uncertainty, and she returned an impossible expression.
I bent down to more keenly observe the monstrous mallow mounted atop Clyde’s miniature mug. It sat there like a hat on a head.
“Are you sure?” I goated with peculiar inquisition.
“Why, yes. I’m certain.”
Still stunned, “Why is that—you can barely place your mouth around it. You can’t even see the cocoa.”
An empty thought bubble burst above Clyde. “I can’t tell you, really. I just prefer it.”
With that he thanked me and went on his way, cheesing with glee and showing it off to the others. It caused quite a stir, quite a rupture from our routine. Within moments the whole workshop was rumbling with giddiness; the sight of a big marshmallow on a little mug mesmerized my entire apprenticeship.
One by one, the elves approached, holding their little arms out with their little mugs. Holly, Scout, Fred, Elvis, Candy, and the rest. They all came. An army of friendly faces, the politest mob there ever was.
“Do you mind if I have one of your big marshmallows, Santa?” “Can I?” “Do you have enough for everyone?” “I’d love to try it, too.”