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.

I’m in a music venue listening to a tribute band in Queen persona. The place is full and buzzing.
Everybody but my husband and I seem to be dancing. I’m on my third glass of wine and taking it all in.

A young woman approaches my non-young, non-dancing husband and demands that he join her in dance.
I could tell how uncomfortable he was, but she wouldn’t let him go. Was it just fun or was it mocking?

Then the magic happened. Our daughter, seeing the situation, cut in. She and her dad, with much tenderness and forgotten baggage, danced under the lights.  I took a mental picture of the glow between them,  love tested and won.

Through the haze of wine and smoke, I saw love and redemption. I don’t need anything else now.  I am home.