A Demon Drives the Ice Cream Truck
This is a re-post from my old blog on another site. I wrote this in July 2008.
The demon is disguised as a pleasant-looking college student. Probably commandeered to drive by demon overlords. Sitting in that little jeep's driver's seat, pushing that button and playing that tune with no idea of his immense power. And it's not like in early April, when I hate to see the evenin' sun go down. No, siree, in summer it's not the fading light but the cheery music that rips open my heart each night, as the ice cream truck drives merrily down the street in search of young customers.
"...it won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage..."
Summer nights on Capitol Hill my son and I would hear the distant, distinct tune coming closer down the next street over. Jake would raise his ears to the wind, like the young perfect animal he was. "It's Popsicle Joe!!!" he'd yell, bounding down the stairs. I'd fumble for a few dollars in my wallet and, if necessary, grab a fistful of coins from the coin jar. There would always be enough for an ice cream, even if I robbed Peter to pay Paul and hell froze over. If not enough for two, why then we'd share...
"...but you'll look sweet upon the seat..."
And bounding down the stairs after him I'd go, no longer so young and never the perfect animal, but willingly, happily playing catch-up, because that's what you do with your kids, they always lead the way: out to the ice cream truck, into the better future you dream of for them, over the hills and far away, into the Light...
My father taught me to sing "A Bicycle Built for Two" when I was little more than a toddler. He said I could carry a tune and learn the words better than anyone he ever knew. Of course, he never lived to know Jake, who could memorize all his lines in all his plays, who was an excellent poker player, and who learned Latin and Japanese (perfectly!) at the same time.
There was that dream I had, a couple of months after Jake died, about driving my (also dead, and quite cranky) father around. I think I told this story way back at the beginning of this blog. See, I'm losing my memory a bit, something that neither of them will ever do. Anyway, my dad and I walk into a bar and there's Jake, sitting on a barstool. The two of them get talking like it was old times, and I say, "Wow, I didn't realize you two knew each other!" And they look at me, incredulous, and Jake's granddaddy says, "Well, who the hell d'you think the ghost is here?"
"...I'm half crazy, all for the love of you..."
And so I am. I miss them a lot. All the time. The Veil is just as thin in the summertime. I guess I don't mind so much, hearing the music of that little truck. I'd rather miss them as I do than have never had them at all.
I used to think that I'd never be able to feel this much pain and still live. That I'd never stand up to it; that I'd be gone, that I'd quit. For reasons I cannot quite explain, I think sometimes that I'm more alive now than I would have ever believed possible. Still standing...dancing, even.
Pain is memory is time is love.
The demon is disguised as a pleasant-looking college student. Probably commandeered to drive by demon overlords. Sitting in that little jeep's driver's seat, pushing that button and playing that tune with no idea of his immense power. And it's not like in early April, when I hate to see the evenin' sun go down. No, siree, in summer it's not the fading light but the cheery music that rips open my heart each night, as the ice cream truck drives merrily down the street in search of young customers.
"...it won't be a stylish marriage, I can't afford a carriage..."
Summer nights on Capitol Hill my son and I would hear the distant, distinct tune coming closer down the next street over. Jake would raise his ears to the wind, like the young perfect animal he was. "It's Popsicle Joe!!!" he'd yell, bounding down the stairs. I'd fumble for a few dollars in my wallet and, if necessary, grab a fistful of coins from the coin jar. There would always be enough for an ice cream, even if I robbed Peter to pay Paul and hell froze over. If not enough for two, why then we'd share...
"...but you'll look sweet upon the seat..."
And bounding down the stairs after him I'd go, no longer so young and never the perfect animal, but willingly, happily playing catch-up, because that's what you do with your kids, they always lead the way: out to the ice cream truck, into the better future you dream of for them, over the hills and far away, into the Light...
My father taught me to sing "A Bicycle Built for Two" when I was little more than a toddler. He said I could carry a tune and learn the words better than anyone he ever knew. Of course, he never lived to know Jake, who could memorize all his lines in all his plays, who was an excellent poker player, and who learned Latin and Japanese (perfectly!) at the same time.
There was that dream I had, a couple of months after Jake died, about driving my (also dead, and quite cranky) father around. I think I told this story way back at the beginning of this blog. See, I'm losing my memory a bit, something that neither of them will ever do. Anyway, my dad and I walk into a bar and there's Jake, sitting on a barstool. The two of them get talking like it was old times, and I say, "Wow, I didn't realize you two knew each other!" And they look at me, incredulous, and Jake's granddaddy says, "Well, who the hell d'you think the ghost is here?"
"...I'm half crazy, all for the love of you..."
And so I am. I miss them a lot. All the time. The Veil is just as thin in the summertime. I guess I don't mind so much, hearing the music of that little truck. I'd rather miss them as I do than have never had them at all.
I used to think that I'd never be able to feel this much pain and still live. That I'd never stand up to it; that I'd be gone, that I'd quit. For reasons I cannot quite explain, I think sometimes that I'm more alive now than I would have ever believed possible. Still standing...dancing, even.
Pain is memory is time is love.