There is nothing nutritionally redeeming about cotton candy. To be perfectly honest, there are few redeeming qualities about cotton candy at all, except for the memories of sweetness and summer that are summoned by nothing more than the exquisite melting of colored sugar on the expectant tongue.
I have only to breathe in the cloud of baby pink cotton to be swept back to childhood summers spent at boardwalks, on carousels and Ferris wheels. The moment the woven sugar begins to crystalize I can almost see the vendors, crying their wares of contrived concoctions; I can almost hear the cacophony of gulls and shouting children, the music of arcade games and street performers.
I also remember sticky hands and unhappy stomachs. The time of day when fun becomes too much, feet begin to hurt, and the rides are no longer worth the wait. I am ushered back to the times of throwing up in parking lots, as Mom and Dad arguing over where they left the car, and big sister rolls her eyes.
The ride home is long and quiet. Dad huffs as he drives the car, mumbling obscenities at the endless row of cars moving at a snail’s pace. The carnival is a distant memory; my only reminder the spider web of pink confection clinging stubbornly to my finger tips.
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