Today the ice cream truck came—
we were outside, warm, and casserole
was in the oven.
I pulled a few easy weeds and she
threw rocks at the driveway
as if they could send ripples through
the pavement. This is her
current delight.

We flew to my bedroom
—I’m the mama now—
and I reached down
the coconut wood change bowl
from the dresser.
She dumped the copper-silver and it fell
like Sabbath morning bells and
in our hands it ranneth over;
we had enough.

I considered the collision
of frozen sugar with her supper,
but today nothing would stop
her introduction to the big blue truck,
with its patriotic music blithe and tinny
on the loud speaker.
Flattened boxes of two dozen
novelties are dusty duct-taped to the doors,
the mother and daughter inside
speaking with a non-native lilt.

Deliberation doesn’t take as long at
One-and-a-half
to settle on the Cherry Rocket
and I choose then, what I can with
what is left, and it’s enough for me.

We pay with muggy nickels and dimes
and then on the front step
lean from drips, the liquid hitting bright
on concrete. We trade licks,
and on her baby chin
mix red and white and chocolate.

She waves with both hands, after they pass
the brim of the cul de sac, after
we can hear music echo in our ears,
and melted, all the sweetness
runs to her elbows.
Crimson hits her yellow sundress,
and I feel the drifting sun bleach
my own dark places.

The lattice shadows filter
from the trellis overhead,
and I see beyond myself again—
her brightness
is solace for my solitude
and her blessing, sufficient.

We set the plates and napkins
on the pine table, and I hear her whisper,
though it’s nothing more than
three words
—ice cream truck—
which she repeats with wonder, and will
like a little monk’s mantra,
well into the night.