Stopping at the Gas Station for Candy Necklaces

Every time my father would squeeze Jenny and I in the cab of his truck, his fist bumping my knees every time he’d shift, he’d stop by the gas station just outside of Fond du Lac on 151 and come out with candy necklaces: one for each of us. Pink, blue, white, yellow, orange—all colors that looked different but tasted quite the same. But, because it was from my father, he didn’t surprise us with much outside of Christmas, I wore it around my neck like diamonds.

My first broken heart—like all firsts—you remember forever because like the first time you ride your bike without training wheels, first hug from your mother, your first beer, you don’t forget that feel that taste of being alive. My mother said she was “staying out of it,” but my father, he was there.

He sat down on the edge of my bed and said two things to me: First, “There will be others.” Second, “You want me to get my shotgun?”

My father is naturally a closed man, but he is an honest man that knows that candy necklaces are sweeter than diamonds just like first loves.