Ice cream (in a cone)

I was reading at the balcony when I glimpsed through the railings and found a man handing an ice cream to a girl. The sun was at its peak melting everyone’s skin, but it mattered less. The happiness was to the kid as the hard-earned coins were to the man.

I used to be that happy kid under the sun with a cone in my left hand. In Dulag, I was convinced that my hero was carrying a bell, the promised ice cream, and the prospect escape. Back when my father doubted his genes and imposed siestas on weekend afternoons, which Mom supported. Our heroes, disguised in the chimes of bell contrasting the rural ambiance, show up as soon as we landed our feet on the bed and started faking our sleep.

Nothing was more exciting than anticipating it. Because no matter how deep we were in our fake sleep, our parents would get us ice creams. And if they were preoccupied after handing us some coins, we could run to the community square with our ice creams where kids our age armed with slippers ruled the afternoon.

Nowadays, we get ice cream in tubs. The last time I ate in a cone was in college a year ago. I was probably distracted at that time, but I remember that I enjoyed the ice cream as much as I enjoyed it as a kid with absurd dreams. I also remember the enduring man selling it under a huge colored umbrella across the fast-food (Viscan slang for the eatery).

To me, nothing beats ice cream in a cone. Cornetto ranks next.

Drafted May 23, 2020