Wonder 06.23.2013

The shortcut through the Winn Dixie parking lot took us past the dumpster which had sometimes bountied us with lightly bruised apples, recently expired cookies, and fresh cut flowers that were beautiful despite their droop. We had learned that it was always worth a peek.

I was kneeling on the ground, tying a knot in my sneaker, when you tenderly lifted the lid, breaking the 2am silence with a monstrous rusty creak. Your right arm extended to the sky, elbow locked, to hold up the heavy lid. 

“Anything good?” I called to you, as I stood up.

You turned to me with a smile so big that dimples pierced your cheeks-- dimples that were so rare, I forgot you had them. I remember thinking “Oh, this must be good.”

As I approached, you flung the top open with a clang, flooding the dumpster with fluorescent light. You grabbed my hand as we peered inside and watched me as I discovered the cause of your dimples: hundreds of loaves of Wonder Bread, stretching to every corner and at least elbow deep. “I can’t be sure,” you said, “but I think they go all the way down. I think it’s nothin’ but bread.”

We did what any self-respecting punks would do, and we crawled inside. Laying on a wheaty cloud, we traded stories about our grandparents, first loves, first bicycles, and favorite swimming holes. We reluctantly climbed out when we started to yawn, scared of falling asleep and waking up in a dump truck.

You still had dimples when we climbed into your bed. And in the morning we made toast.