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One. All About Ice Cream.
The mind is a fragile thing, only capable of holding so much before pieces of the past slip through its grasp.
Amelia clung to those fleeting moments, fearing the weight of forgotten memories. Some would call it a journal. For her, it was a memory bank, where ink met paper and memorable whispers of her past took root.
It held fragments of her life dear to her, each entry a snapshot of the girl she once was, the pieces of herself she fought to keep alive. The liveliest memories from her childhood. For her eyes only.
A journal hidden somewhere in her bedroom. Messy writing—scribbled words that made out a memory important enough to be written in that book.
Because Amelia Bloom can't imagine a world where the echoes of her happiest memories fade into silence, into a deep oblivion of forgotten.
Page twelve—November 5th, 1973.
Dear future me, Mama made ice cream today! She said it was just like the ones from the truck that drives by our house every day. One was vanilla and the other had cookies in it! It was better than I expected. She caught me getting another spoonful and then got mad because I made my tummy upset.
I really liked it. I hope she makes more someday. I want to try every flavor there is! She even wrote down the recipe for me but I dunno how to do it just yet. She promised she will teach me someday!
Margot's motherly heart had always been too soft for her own good. She would let Amelia eat all the servings she wanted—she couldn't resist how her eyes would brighten at the first bite, her face a pure picture of joy. But her love also meant drawing lines, even if it meant scolding her for diving into dessert before touching a single vegetable.
Of course Amelia didn't care. If the apocalypse were to swallow the earth whole, she would go down with a spoon in her hand and a mouth full of ice cream. What fun would life be if she couldn't sneak a taste whenever she wanted?
Amelia would watch the ice cream truck drive down her street. Eyes glued to the window, chin propped on her hands, and her little heart aching with envy. She watched kids in the neighborhood run up to the truck, sprinting across their lawns, crumpled bills clutched in their small hands. Their faces beamed with pure, unfiltered joy.
It was a feeling all children loved. A chorus of squeals when the truck's familiar jingle echoed down the road. It signaled summer. Bright and contagious smiles, even in the eternal winters when snow clung to the sidewalks.
