No Ice Cream
I am walking on a sidewalk
down a hill
toward an ice cream shop
that has a wall of glass brick.
I am holding the hand of a woman
whose face I can’t see.
I am very little.
My arm is upraised
because we are holding hands,
as if I’m asking to be noticed.
When we arrive at the ice cream shop,
the glass brick fills my field of vision.
It is both mundane and magical,
like the wall of a ruined castle.
This memory contains no ice cream.
After years of tests and probes,
it turned out it wasn’t the dairy
that was the problem.
/ / /
24 July 2023
This is poem #3 in a new series, 50 Days Till 50 Years. I’m writing a poem a day between now and my 50th birthday. I’m going to try to focus on memories of my past, and the people who inhabited it.