A Writer's Aesthetic || Short Stories

¶ Ice Cream Melts

This one is actually based on a true story. Every bit of it. Makes me really sad to think of it or look at the house. It's gonna be really short so enjoy.

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Back when my father had time for us, and when I was about half the height of my mother, summer days were my favorite days. Summer days meant that we could play outside whenever we wanted in our safe little community. 

Summer days meant water balloons and sweaty faces.

Summer days meant freshly clipped grass and the sound of children's laughter echoing throughout the yard.

Summer days meant ice cream. 

The first day I saw him it had been only a few days since we had moved into our southern home. There was still a muddy surface as our playground instead of grass that my dad had currently been planting at that moment. He looked as if the night had seeped into his skin and stayed there. Hair was gray with age, and smile as bright as the clouds hovering above us. In his hands? A box of Winn Dixie popsicles.

I remember my brothers and my only sister practically vibrating with excitement, each wanting something to cool them off on that summer day. I remember him talking to my father, both laughing as if they were old friends as soon he handed my dad the ice cream and made his way back to his yellow home. 

"Papi! Who gave us the ice cream?" My younger brother asked happily as my dad approached us with a sweat covered brow from his work. Laughing he had opened the brand new box and gave us each a popsicle of our own. I was so wrapped up in the taste that I hardly heard the word neighbor only to have us all yell out "Thank you!" to the man as he walked across the street.

There was a number of occasions where we had seen him. In an old hat, without a hat, in a coat or without, but he always held that smile of his whenever he would give us yet another box of ice cream to cool us. It had become a tradition. We could count on seeing the man every week without a doubt in our minds that he would be there. 

One week he didn't come. 

Nor the next week.

Nor the next. 

I was far to young to understand then. Far too wrapped up in old drama with new friends and scrambling to fit in where I didn't belong. I never understood really. Not when I saw his things being carted away from that beautiful yellow home that had rabbit holes for the delicate creatures to live in. Not when I saw an old lady move in her always scrunched her nose and never paid us any attention.

A regret I see now.

I never knew his name.

Never asked.

The sweet man who was kind to everyone on our street had passed away in his own home. In living alone, not one person had found him until several days later. 

When I had finally discovered this I had to just stop and think. Think of why such a happy and kind man had been alone. Be angry in thinking why no one was with him. Why he had passed all alone. 

And even now I do not know his name. 

And there will never be a greater regret of mine.