It is the hour after noon. At the sandwich and ice cream shop I sit in the car before coming inside to join you, waiting for the call with the test results from the doctor’s. Colder today, but behind the window glass I count at least three old men— silvered hair, baseball caps— ordering double scoops: butter pecan and chocolate, strawberry and vanilla, butter pecan and strawberry. They walk out of there slowly, licking those ice cream cones like nothing else matters; we should all be so lucky. Women and children out early from school sit on counter stools eating pulled pork sandwiches, fries, onion rings; guzzling limeades or shakes. The place is packed, but only the cash register rings the air. Gulls bluster around the entrance, unfazed by traffic. Amid the trees edging the parking lot, some fates are being decided too: a catbird chases the rival of its mate in silence. And I– I cast a tiny prayer into the foliage, then watch to see what might descend.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.