Ice Cream Sundays

In the summer,

after brushing every tree we passed on the trail,

We drive home hot under our clothes

and the heavy heat of the outside air.

When we drive past that store full of memories

my mouth waters.

I move in my seat and think, of how

I'd rather be cool and inside,

extending my arm

toward the flavors on that board,

smelling the melting chocolate spin out

from the baking cookies,

sitting in those chairs

and talking about nothing for an hour.

How I long for those days again,

when I didn't have to ask for a favor.

My love for them is like the love of ice cream.

You only want it when times are hot and intense,

but once you have it, it disappears,

running back into its fragile shell.