Ice Cream

That time in the long ago when my father said we are what we eat

He must have meant my Salvadorian light or the tripleShot slim latte that you so adroitly downed in three seconds flat. If my memory serves me correctly it was three Raspberry Ripple Ice-cream cones I’d consumed outside Fraher’s old shop, bought With money I’d earned for myself on the early morning news run. But my idle father was not ready to cede authority, or not yet Willing to abandon the upper-hand. He was fooling no one; even Then I had no time for advice. Like my stomach, I was basically Idle and middle-aged at the ripe old age of ten, maybe eleven. Worst luck for me rather than him, but my hatred of authority Would set me breaking windows inside my own stomach. It is not, Let me repeat, it is never, a good thing not to listen to your father Even if he’s drinking lukewarm whiskey from a flask Dan Fraher Gave him, even if his lung has begun its collapse into cigarettes.

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