I love ice cream — large, melting scoops,
Vanilla crowned with honeyed gold.
Since sugar turned against my blood,
I rarely give myself that joy.
Yet once a month, I find my way
To the café bright with chatter and chill,
And there, two scoops of sweetness wait —
My small indulgence, my quiet thrill.
My son is three — a sunlit boy
Who’s never tasted ice cream yet.
On his birthday, we went together.
Lights trembled on the café walls,
Photographs of laughing faces
Savoring colors of frozen dreams —
Vanilla, chocolate, strawberry blush,
Blueberry dark, pineapple dawn.
He gazed around as if the air
Itself was made of wonder.
I ordered two cups — my way.
I told him stories of ice and cream,
Of flavors soft as clouds,
And how the one I loved the best
Was pure vanilla, kissed with honey.
He nodded, wide-eyed, ready to begin.
When the ice cream came, his hands
Could hardly wait to hold the spoon.
He took a taste —
First, surprise at coldness bright,
Then awe, then joy, then pure delight,
As honey’s warmth and cream’s caress
Mingled softly on his tongue.
A flurry of feelings crossed his face —
Incredulity, then bliss —
Then laughter, sweet and wild.
I stopped him gently —
“Slowly,” I said, “taste every spoon.”
He asked why I had never brought him
To this magic place before.
He made me promise we’d return.
And walking home beneath the dusk,
He spoke of nothing else.
In his echoing wonder, I learned anew
How happiness hides in the simplest things.
