Playdough

A texture that is so familiar

when you dig it out of the firm yellow cylinder,

like Wonder Bread that’s been de-crusted and squashed into a ball,

like your own skin.

A smell that brings a flood of memory,

a sweet pungent portal back to days

on the metal tray of the high chair,

at the kitchen table with a rolling pin,

in the pre-school room on tiny chairs.

Vibrant colors that children have

developed particular rods and cones to recognize:

the red that isn’t really red,

the blue of the pretend blue whale and imagined ocean,

the yellow like a raincoat that doesn’t exist in nature,

white - until it gets bits of all other colors mashed in,

the pale green when you mix blue and yellow,

and the not-quite-right purple-gray of red plus blue.

Even a taste – admit it – you know you did,

salty and smooth and

not as good as you thought it would be

not as flavorful as it looked

not as juicy as it felt in your fat hand.

Warming to body temperature

as you kneaded it, rolled it into a snake,

shaped it into a blue dog with red eyes

that would never come off again

that ruined the purity of the blue forever

but that was worth it to make the dog have red eyes.

Being called away,

trying to get the right colors into the right canisters,

pushing the lids down with all your might

and still not sealing them all the way

then next time you peel off the top

finding them crusty and stiff and ruined.

Finding little balls ground into the carpet

hardening with age like a fossil.

~Andrine de la Rocha

 posted 6/6/2011