Melted
The "For Lease" sign vanished three days ago.Walking by, we joke that perhaps a third doomed
ice cream shop will move in. Ill-conceived,over-staffed, and badly decorated. Each shop existing long enough
for my daughter to notice it, proclaim it her favorite,
and, ultimately, mourn its loss. Tears for an ice cream shop
are only slightly less sad than tears in an ice cream shop.
I am briefly confused as to which ice cream iteration
saw her tears splash into her cup. (why don't I ever let her get a cone?
She asks every time). Then I remember. The second shop
was the happier of the two. The owner named after our favorite animal
with the cart he wheeled up only fifteen minutes late
to her number 7 birthday party. The first shop had suffered
from poor timing. It was the site for big talks,served with unfairly small scoops, tears melting
the once solidified rainbow sugar. I was not sorry to see it go.
Through the cracks in the craft paper covering the windows,I can see that the cheap black and white vinyl
floors are bare—
no tables, no freezers, not even a small smattering of leftover sprinkles.In tired moments, in insecure
moments, in overwhelmingly
guilty moments, I worry my second marriage will melt like the first,
like those shops— draining out slowly, running down arms,drying in elbow creases, half-cleaned with a less
than enthusiastic
swipe of a thin, square white napkin-like paper.
But then I remember telling my daughter of the ice cream shop
where I had my first job. I spent my first pink collared day
scooping and rescooping, until every scoop was a perfect .24 pound.I decorated cakes with delicate
cursive, and balloons,
and, sometimes, even sunflowers. For seventy-five Sundays,
I unloaded thousands of three-gallon tubs,
painstakingly triple-checking to make sure none were left
on Leroy's truck. With the tiniest of pink spoons,
I helped everyone find their own favorite flavor,
to last their whole life through. Once, I made ten banana splits.
And that ice cream shop did not fail. Eventually,
the old couple who owned it grew tired, passed it along, and died. Together.
Green
The microwave sounds its fourth round of three impatient tones,
while I sit oblivious remembering a time,
not long after you knew you loved me,
but before you knew to show me,
when I sat on your bed and explained to you in detail as fine as matcha powder,
why I drank only green tea, and why so often.
I extolled its ancient virtues that I had recently discovered online.
I sang of the leaves' abilities to boost metabolism, fight cancer, and all-around-save-the-world.
“Green tea,” I told you
in a relaxed and confident voice, “keeps me calm.”
That evening, neither relaxed nor confident,
I managed to maintain my calmness as I surveyed your nightstand,
littered with mason jars, books, and cards from old lovers.
My eyes rested on a cheaply plated metal necklace adding to the clutter,
which had not been there two nights before
and which would not be there two nights after.
Days later, I summoned a slight, though respectable, amount of that calmness
when I saw the necklace dangling from the owner's green-tinged neck as you bought me a drink.
The microwave continues its barrage of beeps. I overlook its overreaction,
instead thinking how lucky I was to have not been judged
by the trinkets on my own nightstand,
that would have told of the husband, then present and now past.
Long after the water has cooled,
you bring the green tea to me in bed and allow me to take several sips
before you take the half-full mason jar from me and place it gently on our nightstand,
which is tidy now except for books.
You kiss my forehead
and then my mouth, and I am calm.
Erin Aube is a recovering attorney turned high school English teacher. Originally from a valley in Tennessee, she lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband, Charlie, daughters Zelda and Marigold, and too many cats. Her work has appeared in Metonym Journal, Poetry South, The Emerson Review, and brave voices magazine.