Remember the milk.

I remember. I remember the stumpy glass bottles of milk we had for ‘play lunch’ in primary school.I remember hearing them being delivered in stacks of purple-brown or purple-red plastic crates. I remember sitting cross-legged on the linoleum classroom floor. I remember sitting on one of the multi-colored concentric circles. I remember it was the red one because that was the coolest one to sit on. I remember watching the crates being stacked under the eaves of the walkway outside. I remember the sun creeping across them, warming the bottles, which would sweat rainbow diamond drops of water. I remember it clearly. The milk would be served in glass…wet, warm, and disgusting. I remember the milk was taken under close supervision. As if some sort of medication. As if some sort of gastric punishment. I remember some kids were fine with it. I remember I was not. I remember taking a note left for our milkman at home (I remember when milk was delivered to the house each morning). “No milk…