The Spirits Want Easter Candy: A Prose Poem

Go to Walgreens at 3am, the spirits need Easter candy on the altar. Normally I’d go to Whole Foods, get some gluten free, free-range, vegan dark chocolate eggs–or perhaps a bunny. Something worthy of the spirits that guide me through both external and internal madness. But the need is NOW and I cannot make them wait. I pull on my pre-torn jeans, Dragon Age hoodie, and stalk out into the cold. I don’t remember the drive, the swirl of thoughts replaced the cars and street signs in my memory.

When I walk in I see the clerk feverishly texting while he pretends to stock cigarettes. The greasy light fills every corner. Yellow glare reflects off the dingy walls, dusty floor, and dented shelves. I instinctively head towards the ever-changing aisle. The center aisle of every Walgreens is overstocked with seasonal sundries.

Last month it shimmered in green shamrocks and cartoon leprechauns–plastic treasures at the end of the Rainbow.

The month before there was a sea of red and pink hearts filled with mass produced chocolate and cheap stuffed animals–proof of a husband’s affection.

Tonight the aisle harbors the expectant yellow and pink pastel foil wrapped waxy bunnies, baskets, and plastic grass–the American mix of religion and commercialism celebrated with stolen pagan symbols.

In the nicotine glow I scan for the good candy. The best I can do is Dove chocolate eggs. The spirits argue amongst themselves about milk or dark, so I grab both and shuffle to the counter.

The unwashed 19 year-old was still texting, but didn’t miss a beat, spun around, and began wordlessly ringing me up for the twilight offering. He nods his “Have a good night,” turning back to face the cigarette case.

When I get home I place a dozen each, milk and dark, on the altar. I thank the spirits for the golden pillar of magelight that blazes in my soul, regardless of the dark path still ahead.

They radiate their appreciation of the egg-shaped confections with an electric current of calm that seldom resides in my gut. An amber warmth soaks into my muscles, bones, blood–gifting me the moment.