I paced myself to finish my ice cream. I managed to stick my tongue out at each and every person who walked past. Finally, the last bite. I savored it.
My eye caught the bottom of the bowl. There were words. I recognized the letters; however, I was still too young to read. I could feel my heart rev up again with excitement.
Did I win a prize? I must have! I won a prize! What could it possibly be? The checkered flag was waving.
Mom. I needed Mom. Mom can read and she will tell me exactly what I've won. Quickly I put one foot in front of the other, darted towards my mother, and pushed every obstacle out of my way. I cornered like a dream and was first to the finish line.
"Mom. I won! What did I win? What's my prize?" I jumped up and down waving the bowl and spoon in front of my mother's face. Splatters of blue were flying everywhere.
Mom grabbed my arm, and the bowl along with it. She read the manuscript diligently.
Her face. I knew that face. I had seen it before and it wasn't a positive thing: eyes big with a look of concern, lips puckered trying to form the right words, eyebrows close together creating that bubble you get when deep in thought, and she had her head cocked to the left anticipating my reaction. Right was empathetic. Left was judgement. Hers was left.
Mom put her hand on her hip and pushed the bowl into my face. She was moving it in front of me as if to show me the words. I watched her lips and the world froze in time. What was she going to say to me? I was ready to read their motion.
"Sarah, you didn't win a prize, see." She waved more.
This is the first memory I have of feeling patronized. If I could read you wouldn't have the bowl in the first place, now would you?
"It's not a prize." She scoffed. "It's a warning. For parents." The dramatic pause.
I could see my little sister laughing in the corner of my eye. I shot her a look that would kill, and she stopped. Oh, yah. I could do that already. These green eyes can turn into a monster like that. *snap. Stupid baby.
Mom always moved past things quickly. She was ready to hit the next area of the park yesterday, and I was still trying to understand what had just happened. Mom snatched my wrist and pulled me out of the arena. As she dragged me away my head was turned back. My eyes glarred at Papa Smurf with the death gaze. I know he felt me. I never would watch the Smurfs again.
That was the point in my life that I knew for certain that Smurfs were evil. The church was right.
As I've grown older and lived my life I still encounter a Smurf now and then. The only difference is that they don't always wear the blue sweater, but they are out there...