Home Books Poems Bio Press Events Contact

Snow Ice Cream

Mother would make it for us in South
Mississippi. We'd open our mouths

to frozen heaven. (So rarely.) But purely
vanilla delight! My young sister surely

loved it too (and she was "finicky"). She did
not like any other ice cream. Our dad

was so mad when he took us riding
on Saturday afternoon for treats. Although never chiding,

he saw her instantly pitch her cone right
out the back car window. Well, that made him shout,

"Why didn't you tell me you didn't want
it?" She was four, cotton-haired, stoic. "Can't

you hear? I did," she said. He couldn't do
anything with her. But mother's snow treat was true

flavoring, milk and sugar, mixed up with
experiments of fun — for us. She waited. "If

it snows this winter we'll make it again,"
she'd wink. So we would watch the skies when

it turned fall, then winter, then really cold
right there in southern Hattiesburg. So bold,

Mother would grab her coat, be out the door
with a bowl at the first flake. We yelled, "More!"

each time we finished lapping up her treat.
We thought mother could do everything, even a feat

such as make the ground white in the deep South just for us.
We were right. That was part of her past: her love-must.

- Journal of Texas Women Writers / Maneuvers

 

This web site designed and maintained by West of the World.
© 2005 - 2015 Sybil Estess