Cyrian Mills
When I was a kid, roughly four or five years old, my grandfather took me to the gas station to get donuts. This was the first time I had been able to run his weekend donut run with him. Upon entering the building, overwhelming scents blasted into my nose. An aroma of fresh baked goods, early-morning body odor from other early risers getting their coffee, and smell of stale mop water assaulted me on
two fronts. Overwhelmed by smells, I could barely focus on what was in front of me. I approached the doors of crystal clear plexiglass that guarded the pastries. Full trays of donuts with a variety of flavors towered overhead. Shelves towering higher than my eyes could see. A sensation of sweet intimidation swept over me. I must have looked as overwhelmed as I felt.
My grandpa saw how shaken I was, went over to the register, paid for the donut he had in-hand, came back over to me next to the display case, and handed it to me, offering me some of his raspberry jelly filled donut first to see if I would like it. My childlike desire to have something in common with him led to me sinking my teeth in. The delightful crunch of the flaky shell and the gentle taste of the powdered sugar lowered my guard, and made what was to come hit me much harder.
I bit into it further and was immediately struck by every ingredient contained inside. That furious fruit filling beat my taste buds into submission with its overbearing artificial flavor. The sandy grains of sugar grated against my teeth and rubbed the inside of my cheeks raw. Desperately jumping towards the trash can next to the donut case, I spit it out as fast as I could. I looked up to grandpa with a frown, disappointed that I couldn’t even force myself to like it for his sake. Seeing this, he smiled at me and radiated a warmth that probably could have kept the donuts on display fresh for days. He grabbed a simple glazed donut for the case, paid for it, and we left. Back in the car, I apologized to my grandpa, and he placed a firm hand on my head and ruffled my hair. I didn’t need to hear him say anything to know that he took no offense to it. I knew he wouldn’t hold it against me.
When I was seventeen, my grandfather died from cancer. He was a smoker his whole life, so it wasn’t too much of a surprise that cancer eventually came for him. It was mostly surprising how fast it was. It wasn’t even a month between the discovery of the cancer and the day he died. It was enough time for his chemotherapy to thin his hair and lose half his body weight. The morning before he passed, my mom bought him a box of donuts. The treatments took his appetite, but she was just wishing for him to eat.
The day he died everyone in the family was called into town, and within 3 hours, the living room was filled with people crying, looking at photos, or on the phone breaking the news to anyone and everyone that my grandfather had ever cared for. It was a small town, so they might as well have been going through every number in the phone book. It was too much for me, so I snuck away into the kitchen to catch my breath and try to find something to eat. I hadn’t had the chance to eat breakfast and I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I had to eat something. Sitting on the counter was the pale cardboard box my mom had bought over the day before. I knew my grandmother hadn’t been grocery shopping, and the options for anything that could count as a meal would be slim. I stepped over the box and opened the box to see twelve untouched powder coated jelly filled donuts. I grabbed one from the center, and just looked at it. I knew what was about to come, but it was better than having to go into the living room and ask if anyone else was hungry. Without any real option, I lifted it to my mouth and took a bite.
The grit of the sugar grinded between my teeth, and the congealed fruit sludged against my cheeks and tongue. But there was no flavor. No violent sweetness. Just pure texture without any sort of rhyme or reason. I stopped chewing, and with my mouth closed, silently walked over to the trash can. Leaning over the open mouth of the bin, I returned the favor by opening mine, letting the masticated mess flop out of my mouth. I gathered up what was left of the pastry in my saliva, and topped off the trash with a spit and closed the lid. Even though my grandpa wasn’t there to apologize to, I didn’t need to hear him say anything. I knew he wouldn’t have taken offense.