Carvel. The ice cream store.
A memory. Out of nowhere.
A short walk from my house. On Kings Highway. In Brooklyn.
We walk there after dinner.
For the best soft ice cream in the world.
My parents. Younger.
Me. Younger.
My mother rarely buys her own cone. Eats at least 1/2 of my father’s ice cream.
Chocolate. Vanilla. Nothing fancy.
We walk out of the store.
Ice cream cones in hand.
The sun is bright in the sky.
Summertime.
A memory.
And just like that.
It’s gone.
Cross posted to the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Tuesday.
Elisa Waingort 
I love the voice you have in this piece. It FEELS like a memory. So specific, and yet the haziness of a memory. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you for your comments! Yes, the memory is hazy in the sense that when I try to capture it, what I remember most is coming out of the ice cream shop with my parents, ice cream in hand. It is that moment that is pressed into my brain.
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This felt movie-like to me. A perfect little scene of family time and ice cream. Those two things go together nicely. Lovely poem.
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Thank you, Betsy! I am thinking this is a beginning piece in a series about childhood memories, which are sometimes difficult for me to bring to the surface.
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