Honeycomb

Most of all I remember the Australians. They always seemed so overjoyed whenever they found those big purple bags in the back of the store under the Kinder.

"We only found these back home," they said, their voices beaming as I shoved the bags of honeycomb candy into another layer of plastic. "And we were so glad that we could find them here, we didn't even know they existed in America. It's nice to have a reminder of home, with the travel ban and all that. Thank you."

I never really had a reason to thank them. I only worked the register; I didn't fly the cargo plane or drive the shipping boat or drag boxes from the truck into the warehouse, or even put the candy out on the shelves. But I did all I could to make their endless stay something of sweetness. Like honey, I tried to be transparent and sweet, and keep the golden color of my innocence.

Then the store closed. It wasn't anything in our control-- just a corporate buyout, cutting off my job right as it was getting good. I didn't know what I could do to lift my spirits. I tried to keep myself uplifted for the people in line, but how can you do that when you're considering the rest of your life? So I did the one thing that always made me better-- I bought food. Specifically, a bag of honeycomb candy.

There were a lot of good things about that candy. The chocolate coating, the crystalline way it twinkled when you bit into it, the way it dissolved in your mouth. But to me, it was a lifeline-- an invisible string tying me to the people I'd served, the ones whose lives I'd hopefully sweetened just a little bit. Above all else, I hope that they've made their way home.