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The end of childhood
I so clearly recall the ice cream truck’s music because it meant the icey joy, the freedom of summer .
I always asked for the Big Stick in swirls of enchanting colors or a Fudgesicle when feeling daring.
My ahead-of-her-time mother had to be cajoled into allowing such frivolity in food choices.
One indeterminate day the music stopped. No more sweetness and light. No more play. Lost joy.
Now when I hear the ice cream truck’s jarring jingle, I’m chilled by its menacing message of decay.
Lori Jones McCaffery
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