When you went through the grocery store today,
your mind was stuck on your dad.
When he was around, alive, yours.
Before he died
when you were small.
Before it was just you and mom,
two sisters, that’s all. All women,
no dad. Smiles, but sometimes nothing but sad.
In the freezer aisle, long glass doors, sealing sounds as they close and keep in the cold, you swing your basket, half full, not heavy. Near the frozen treats, you tap the toe of your shoe and scan the flavors. Don’t usually keep ice cream in the house where there’s only you. Mint chocolate chip, moose tracks, cherries jubilee, you see a label shouting fat free. Vanilla, French vanilla, vanilla bean, something else vanilla-y but not quite so vanilla-ish. The labels are giving you a headache. Maybe popsicles, you consider. But before you move on, your eyes fall on butter pecan—dad’s favorite flavor. A pint of the creamy flavor falls into your basket, halved shells of soft nuts, cold from fossilizing in the ice cream, buried deep like treasure.
It becomes a butter pecan week.