Popsicles

"Root beer or banana?" my older, far-too-mature-for-her-age (and probably for her own good, as well) sister Melissa asked. I stared up at her uncertainly. I still couldn't wrap my head around the fact that we had popsicles, so I certainly couldn't even begin to decide which flavor I should commit to. She smiled down at me (I assume it was a smile, but now that I think about it, it probably was more of a grimace), and handed me a randomly selected package. I looked down at my melting treat with amazement, but my reverie was interrupted with the sounds of thumping and pounding. My head shot up, and I stared at my four older siblings who appeared to be violently attacking their popsicles. One brother was whacking his against a corner of the kitchen counter, while another sat cross-legged on the floor, meticulously performing some sort of operation on his frozen gem. My goodness. What is going on here? Why were they mercilessly beating their popsicles? No wonder Mom never buys us anything fun. But just when I was about to burst into hysterics, Melissa informed me that these popsicles weren't like the usual ones we get--these ones had two joined popsicles, each one on a separate stick--and that they needed to be split in half. I then said something corny, and probably really embarrassing, to verbalize my relief. Melissa smiled at me and tilted her head slightly, as if to nudge me along. I beamed back at her and scampered off to an edge of the kitchen wall. I placed my popsicle against the edge, and then pushed against it with all my weight. After feeling the popsicles separate, I  moved my hands away from my masterpiece so that I could see the damage done. Instead of splitting in half, my popsicle had shattered into dozens of little pieces. I immediately whipped my head toward Melissa, who could only cover her eyes and shake her head in exhaustion. I stared back at the melting mess now cradled in my hand, slid down the wall onto the floor, and began to sob.