spoons of sugar

not like the ones forced at my mouth to stop my anemic shakes or car-sick nauseating spells.
Hmm, but now that we're on the subject, i suddenly feel the need for story telling.

I was about 5 years old, summering in Mexico, when i first realized i didn't like to be in things that moved too fast, particularly, in a circular motion.
The wretched thing was part of a traveling carnival next to my grandmothers house. It was called Platillos Voladores (flying saucers). I sat, waiting, happy, excited, as the mechanical spins began. Regardless of the cool mountain valley air, sweating palms and neck began to come over me. I took a breath holding onto my cousin and the bar on my lap.
Faster it went. Holding my breath i clenched harder, mistaken for fear, as my first cold sweat and nausea consumed me. looking down at me, realizing, she took my head to her chest covering my eyes, saying that would make it better, only seeming to make it worse. Repeating to myself, "this is fun... this is fun... supposed to be fun..."
It seemed like eternity, the slowing down , the oh-so long slowing down of my saucer. looking at the bar to lift. waiting. breathing short. sweating cold.
We quickly walked home, embarrassed of getting sick. my grandmother took one look at my pale face to nearly yank my cousin's arm out of her socket, then dragging me to the kitchen.
I remember being picked up and plopped on the stool my grandfather had made me. I was fed a spoonful of sugar followed by a bottled joya.

Under other circumstances this dinner would have been a great start to my evening :)