Ice Cream

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Ice cream pools in a plastic bowl, the kind you shouldn’t microwave. Our conversation is light, and rests in the late-summer air among the insects. My mind wanders away from what we are saying, what I am saying, and I talk without thinking. We are on her back porch, waiting in mesh folding chairs for the sun to set, and our relationship is in an easy spell. The days have not been too harsh- not yet- so we continue in a sort of lull. We are aware that it will falter, but choose to let it alone for now because it is working out ok. The ebbs and flows will remain, regardless of how we approach them, and so we do not approach them at all.


When the wind takes a piece of my hair, I return to the conversation. She tells me about work, about youth, about life. That is what this porch is for, what this air and these insects are for. They exist here for the sake of this moment, in which we talk lightly about heavy things. The ice cream has melted but is still just as sweet, and you still shouldn’t microwave the bowl. Some things maintain a semblance of constancy, but never for long. That is why there is different air, and different insects to make up other moments which may be heavy, or light, or both.