These days. Wanting everything to hit just so. Like that moment a song comes on the radio and you sing your heart out cause of that pent up thing going on inside of you. That thing fenced in. Sleeping, maybe. I want it all to be bold and soft at once. Like dry ice. Cold, hot, smoking. And bathed in a kind of light that stops grown men in their tracks, causes them to take notice. Like the day I was three, four at most, and went walking with my Grandmother and Mother through an Uncle’s peach orchard. Them talking about small things. A new baby coming somewhere, someone down sick, a touch of sadness, then a little later, something that made them laugh. The peaches ripe, sweet, lush like those voices rising and falling. And, later, homemade ice cream. Folks taking turns at the machine and even so little - I took mine. The slow revolution of the crank, the resistance of the ice and cream being turned, turned, turned until it was a concoction spun straight from that Southern Summer day on that back porch, the sun falling lower in the sky and evening quick coming on.
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