Shadows Unveiled

Chores-o-Mania

Running as fast as our little feet could carry us, we dashed down the familiar streets of our neighborhood. At the corner of a row of houses, our youthful exuberance got the best of us, causing us to accidentally collide with a lady, sending her shopping bag flying and her groceries scattering across the path. 

In the midst of this unintended chaos, our natural compassion kicked in. Without hesitation, we rushed to help her, gently preventing her from falling, and quickly gathered her scattered groceries. We offered profuse apologies as the lady looked on, a mix of surprise and gratitude on her face. 

My younger brother Jacob, was an eager eight-year-old, and I, was slightly older at nine years. We had been sent on an errand by our mother, a task we had grown accustomed to. Mama handed us the exact change we needed and began counting aloud as soon as we stepped out the door. 

She gave us a simple instruction: purchase either vegetables, a loaf of bread, or whatever was needed, and return before she finished counting to 50. To this day, I still wonder what she was counting against - was it minutes or some mysterious arithmetic from a bygone era? 

On our way back home, at the very same junction where we had unintentionally bumped into the lady earlier, my younger brother abruptly halted, causing me to stumble over him. His sharp eyes had caught sight of a green, perfectly wrapped lollipop resting innocently on our path. 

His first instinct was to recall the warning Mama had instilled in us like a guiding principle: "You shall not pick up or accept anything, nor shall you consume anything offered by strangers or anyone other than your mama or papa." The lady may have left it here purposely, but ... 

He shot me a cautious look, and I instinctively stepped back, a flicker of fear in my eyes. "Just between us," he whispered with a sly grin, "we don't have to tell." He had grown bolder and more daring in life, in stark contrast to my mostly shy and honest nature. 

With the meat safely tucked under his arm, he swiftly unwrapped the lollipop, divided it into two, and handed me a piece. We chewed cautiously, knowing that Mama would likely be suspicious if she caught a whiff of our sweet secret. 

Candy was a rare indulgence in our household, reserved for special occasions like Christmas or an occasional Sunday treat. "Not good for your teeth," Dad often reminded us, and, truth be told, we had never visited a dentist. 

Tooth extractions were typically performed by our Uncle Charles (Dad's youngest brother) or even by Papa himself. Later, our Big Brother introduced the age-old family tradition of tying a thread to a doorknob before yanking it to extract a loose tooth. 

As we continued our journey home, our pace slowed a bit, and we wiped away any remnants of the candy. Unfortunately, the sweet treat carried a strong berry aroma, making it difficult to conceal. We made an unspoken pact not to reveal our secret upon our return. I could not bear to face Mama and instead pretended to be interested in joining a game we called rounders (baseball) outside. 

Meanwhile, my younger brother successfully delivered the requested item to Mama, maintaining a poker face all the while. Mama, however, knew her children inside out. As she appeared at the door, her intuition told her something was amiss. She could not help but wonder why I had not returned.

She shared a lesson during dinner about the consequences of lying, speaking of the fires of hell. My younger brother and I exchanged knowing glances, our guilt bubbling beneath the surface. We managed to avert our eyes before Mama could see the telltale signs of our secret candy adventure. Our conscience weighed heavily on us as if our lives had suddenly become an open book.