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.
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.
And just like that.
Cross posted to the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Tuesday.