If we listened hard enough, we would hear what wasn't actually there. Every day, all summer long, we listened for the jingle of the ice cream truck, even though it only came once that entire year. In that warm summer's air at 8:30, light still in the sky, it was alright to do this. We would never give up hope.
My dad would read the three of us siblings chapters of Harry Potter, Nancy Drew, or Anne of Green Gables out loud on the front porch, and every once in a while, my brother would lift his head.
"Did you hear that?" he'd ask, and my dad would set the book down on his worn blue jeans he always wore when weeding clovers. I would look up, as if I could see over the tall pines--a type of X-Ray vision specifically for ice cream trucks.
"I don't think it's coming," my dad would finally say, after we were silent, listening hard, for a good ten minutes. Sometimes, my mom would make us a snack--a mix of berries she called Special Treat. We would sprinkle sugar on top and eat them on the uncomfortable, prickly wicker furniture outside.
After my dad read, we would play skip-it or hopscotch in the hilly driveway. I would ride my bike and maybe skin my knee. We refueled our bikes in chalk gas stations. Sometimes, Jonny or the Smart boys would ride their bikes with us, around and around the circle of the cul de sac. When darkness fell, we would retreat and park our bikes in the garage, propped up against foul smelling trashcans, figuring maybe the ice cream truck would come tomorrow.
Now, I am old and do not live at home. The green Honda Civic I share with my sister rests rusting in the driveway. Last summer, the ice cream truck came, just a few years too late. I couldn't run outside, tearing the thin fabric of my socks, chasing wildly after it, without feeling like a fool. I would listen to its jingle play, until it got fainter and fainter, finally fading into nothing. I could hear it in my head, even after the truck drove away, the sun setting in the distance.
Comments (2)
The ice cream truck never came down my street. I feel as though I missed out.
Haha, I used to run after the ice cream truck that came by my babysitters house. It was such a special treat. These days it seems like the ice cream man is a total creeper...playing music to get kids to run after him.
Nice story. I like the imagery I get of the wicker furniture, and I especially like the part about tearing your socks.