Words, she said, are not candy

Last night I dreamed that I brought in an essay composed entirely of candy to my students. The words were written directly on the m&m's: storm, feast, strange.

But in my haste to hand out this delectable essay to the class (I was an hour late; I had been dancing in the snow; George Clooney was in the first row), the candy got jumbled. Words were strewn everywhere.

I woke up with a little song in my head: words are not candy, oh no, words are not candy. It reminded me of a short story I wrote in college where, in the final scene, the main character, Stella (what else were we to name our college heroines?), sits on top of the kitchen counter, takes a deep drag off of her cigarette and proclaims, Men are not just words. (I remember this being a revelation.)

And now I am thinking of other things that are not words: blue jays, torn slips, pulled muscles. A stack of essays sits on my desk waiting to be graded. I am hoping they are not just words either.