Soft-serve ice-cream slowly melting away in a cone. So cold, so satisfying. Wispy clouds reddened by sunset, mountain peaks visible because it finally stopped raining. An unusually empty parking lot. We're loading groceries into the car, taking turns who's holding the ice-cream cones and chatting about a pretty wrist watch I just bought.
Ice-cream in one hand, steering wheel in another hand. We are driving home and chatting about a friend who is dying of brain cancer. Her husband has hard time taking care of her, because lifting a limp person who feels like a big plastic bag full of water in and out of the bathtub is just one small part of it. A friend tries not to cry while telling me she is trying to encourage him to not feel horrendosuly guilty for not being strong enough.
Ice-cream is down to the cone alone. Watching traffic and clouds in the evening sky. Chatting about wills, leaving money to take care of your own funeral, talking if we want to be cremated or if we want to become trees when we die.
Ice-cream is gone now. Life goes on despite the absurdity of it all.
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