#644 Peeps

I had been trying to ignore marshmallow peeps. Sugar. Oh, dear. I'm down another two pounds, and I want to keep it that way.

But they're everywhere this weekend. I think about how wonderfully plump and warm and soft they get in the microwave. They chase me, peeping at my heels.

This afternoon I was asked to write something moving about someone I loved who had died. I wrote about Jay's lopsided smile when he saw me coming down the hall at the rehab center.

Then someone mentioned peeps. I was not at that nostalgic moment able to ignore peeps.

I remembered the time, before we were married, when Jay and I were driving through Catskill, a particular street and intersection, and I was feeding him peeps, one bite for him, one for me. We were so happy. The older couple in the car behind us were laughing at us, and waved at us, and the woman gave the man a kiss when we all stopped at the traffic light. It was spring, and we were in love.

I couldn't stand it any more. I went to the drug store and bought peeps. The properly yellow ones. One pack for now, and one to let get stale and chewy.

Here's to you, Jay. I love you, still.