On Saint Patrick's Day, my husband brought me home a cup full of Lucky Charms, since they were serving them up at his job in honor of the patron saint of that day. Of course! Why wouldn't that be appropriate? I mean, there IS a leprechaun with an Irish brogue in the advertisement, after all. Andre had put them in a plastic cup and made a makeshift top with another cup.
"I remembered you said this was your favourite cereal when you were a kid," he said as he pulled them out of the bottom of his backpack. The cup was bent, dented, cracked in places, but the delicacy of dry, pastel-coloured marshmallows and sugary cereal were intact.
You know how it is when something brings back, in a flood, not only a fond memory, but a fond feeling? I stood with my face to the opening of the cup breathing in that aroma from my childhood, the sicky sweetness of indulgence before you started to give a crap whether it would go straight to your hips. Ah, yes! I'm certain I was smiling into the cup when my husband wasn't looking.
I left it on kitchen counter in anticipation of the morning, where I would savour it with the late winter sun pouring in across the kitchen table, the snow and ice drip, dripping off the frozen not-hazardous-at-all spiral fire escape stairs just outside the window.
And I did.
I told my husband, "I believe that is just about the kindest, most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me." It wasn't just that he thought of me upon seeing the Lucky Charms, but it was also the effort with which he packaged them and transported them to me in the bottom of his backpack, for an hour and a half of a bus ride, a metro, and a walk up a slippery hill to get them to me intact and fit for human consumption. The thought and the effort made them even more delicious.