popsicle sticks

           Across the street she sat. She was no more than six and wearing a soft pink dress, one that little girls wore on Sunday to church. She even had the bow, pink and starched, holding back her long brown hair.

            In her lap she held an empty plastic peanut butter jar. The lid sat next to her on the ground. In the neck of the jar, the part that spirals and seals with the lid, were two polar holes on opposite ends, both connected with a white string that lay limp around the girl’s neck. In the jar, were Popsicle sticks.

            Patrick had noticed this girl before, several times actually, waiting for his bus. Being a man of habit, he worked the nine to five, five out of seven, summer shift and because of this, he automatically developed a regular routine. Because of that, Patrick’s mornings brought him to the 4^th and grand bus stop. He would sit at the stop, sipping a coffee, reading some news article that seemed almost unrealistically far away. Then his bus would arrive and Patrick would board it.

            Three weeks ago Patrick noticed the girl, as described, sitting directly, (almost eerily) across from him with her jar of Popsicle sticks. Every so often she would reach her hand inside and pull out a stick and hand it to a passer by. The person would look at it, as if reading what it would have to say then put it in his/her pocket and continued to wherever they were heading. She would stay seated on the curb, staring at her brightly polished black dress shoes.

            When Patrick first saw the girl handing out the sticks, he instantly felt as though he needed to have one. Patrick felt he needed to know. But his bus arrived, rather prematurely that day, and he left in dismay.

            The following day Patrick realised how silly he had felt, thinking he was missing out on something, and made his way to the bus stop with his regularity back in swing. He watched her hand out four Popsicle sticks to people who weren’t concerned in the slightest about her. But as they read the sticks their reactions instantly changed. Some smirked. Some got angry, and even one started to laugh, uncontrollably. And after each had read the sticks they put it in their pockets and walked away. Then Patrick’s bus would arrive.

            This new routine became the point of interest in Patrick’s day. He even began to wake up earlier so he could watch all the sticks that were given out that morning. She would always be there, sitting and waiting for the next stick receivers. The reactions varied moment to moment, with no pattern whatsoever. An old woman would read the stick and would laugh, but a young teenager would cry. Then a mother would smile, and a busy father would scratch his head confusedly. Their reactions varied, person to person, but then they would all put the stick in their pocket and Patrick would get on to his bus.

            It became a form of amusement, guessing what could possibly be on those sticks. Patrick’s ideas varied as much as the reactions and became more outlandish with each given stick. Maybe it was a silly joke? Or a poem? Maybe it was the winning lotto numbers? Or a message from a dead relative? Or maybe the stick posed as some type of American style fortune cookie that revealed their future? Maybe it showed their deepest desires? All Patrick knew was that every morning the girl would have a empty peanut butter jar full of new sticks and everyone she gave them to would be changed, altered to what degree, Patrick didn’t know, but to a point where keeping the stick was unquestionably necessary. And every morning Patrick would board his bus, thinking for a change.