A Little Arsenic in the Skippy Extra Chunky
A short poem about my mother.
“Wouldn’t it be nice of you to make me a sandwich?” I’d lisp to my mom, in my gap-toothed little kid voice.
Charmed by her conniving five year old offspring, she’d always comply.
Toasted, no crust, strawberry jam, and extra chunky peanut butter, thickly spread.
And a bite taken out of the corner.
Always.
I didn’t think about it much, I’d dip my sammich in my chocolate milk (with roughly a 1:1 ratio of syrup to milk) and happily scarf away.
Finally, one day, I asked her about it.
“Mommy, why’s there always a bite taken out of my sandwich?”
“Well,” She replied jokingly, “I want to make sure it’s good, and not poisoned.”
I thought about it for a minute.
”... You made it. You mean you don’t know? WHY’RE YOU TRYINTA POISON ME?! AIIIEEE!” Then I hurled it on the floor and ran out of the room shrieking.
She stopped biting my sandwiches after that, though.
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