It was one of those days...

When they made popsicles. Forget the kind with the even, colorless plastic wrappers. These tasted better. They were better. Mama would always have to buy two batches of strawberries, not just one, because they always had to be sampled. To maybe just that they were...good enough to get cut up and dropped into the sticky and syrupy bowl, splashing on already stained fingers. So of course the best ones got eaten along the way, shared as they emptied out the small plastic baskets. Green, the kind Fred hadn't seen in a long, long time. And even though she understood the physics of it, of why. Of how things break down and go back to the earth, she still missed those flimsy little baskets filled with fruit, and they way they bended and folded in her hands once they'd been cleared out. You could even turn them inside out of themselves, if you wanted to.

Strawberry Koolaid then, the kind you still put the sugar in. Fred didn't like the way the sugar-free kind smelled, or the texture of it mixed with the water. She'd carefully measure out the sugar, dumping it in and stirring until all the tiny crystals were gone. They always used the same bowl, the edges of it now stayed red for always. One day she just gave up ever getting it really clean. Well, it was clean...clear then, Fred supposed. Clear of everything they'd done with it that day. Not that she wanted it to go away. Fruit and koolaid together, and into the small plastic holders with the matching sticks. They had enough for twelve now, because six just wasn't enough, and anything worth doing? Dad always laughed at them, poked and asked what was wrong with the ones from the store. But Fred always noticed how he ate the second one every single time, right after she'd had one. You had to tun them under the hot water from the tap, just to get the popsicles loose. But just right, so you didn't melt them before it was time.

Summers were marked that way, sitting in the chairs out in the front yard. All of them pushed together, sticky red smears here and there. They'd watch the sunset, talk about what kind to make next time. Daddy would suggest strange and awkward combinations, just to make them laugh. But secretly Fred always wanted to try them anyway, and sometimes she did just that. Sometimes the popsicles would break apart before they were done. Too much fruit, too much sun, or not enough time in the freezer. She'd stare for a while, at that bit of their work coloring the dusty ground. Then she'd pat a bit of dirt over it, in that practical need to keep the ants away, before darting through the door to go get a fresh popsicle and start all over again.