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I'm sure the child would like a dextrose
And the kid must want some dextrose Mrs. Miehlke's heavily made-up face between the red tinted hair suddenly begins to enlarge rapidly as she bends down to me in her white apron over the high counter of the old pharmacy. Her knotty features distort into a smile, her bony hand screws into the tin can, mother's elbow pushes my shoulder. What do you say? Thank you!
Instantly I get lost in the old tin can with my checked sweater and corduroy trousers. I dance in gentle veils of powdery grape sugar, lemon rather than orange, without the colour of the packaging you can never say exactly how grandma's snow globe shines and glitters, I glide on a small sledge through the creaking artificial snow, dressed in mum's brown suede jacket, warming myself to its subtle smell. It feels like I'm here for a few hours, in the can or in the old pharmacy. Mother and wife Miehlke whine from the reverberation of forgotten moments like the adults at Charlie Brown, trumpeting, cackling in front of the beautiful wooden drawers with a brass finish. Only in years I will appreciate her beauty, but her smell mixes itself warmer and darker into the powdery snow flurry.
Whenever I tug at mother's suede jacket during these hours, I also get a whiff of her scent into my canned ball, whose dissipating magic increasingly diminishes, powdery, wooden, somewhat resinous and lightly leathery even.