If Kids,

Camryn hambrick

hear the ice cream truck first, they will tap their mothers’ shoulders for change. If they tap, their mothers—distracted by the television or voice on the other line—will rummage through junkyards of purses and conjure a few quarters. If mothers conjure, the kids will jam loose coins in their pockets, snatch worn bikes from the garage, and pedal hard toward the rust-sprinkled source of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” If they pedal hard, the kids will reach the truck in time to exchange quarters for sweets: snow cones and push-pops and drumsticks. If they exchange, the truck will sell out. If the truck sells out, you will remember the apple ice cream your dad served behind the plastic panels and clouded windows of his yellow trailer where you spent every other weeknight hugged to the edge of a faith-patched air mattress, slurping caramel, spilling dreams. If you remember his apple ice cream, you will start to miss him, the man who cut snowflakes from paper, read stories through snores, and strung you across his shoulders to see Tinker Bell soar across The Happiest Place on Earth, the land where dreams come true. If you start to miss him, regret will remind you of the night you saw him last, when he said life is not princesses and mouse ears but office hours and heartache, said to call when you wake from Fantasy Land, then returned you to your mother’s doorstep like a fragrance labeled Try Me. If regret reminds you, you will realize two years have passed with no contact—perhaps you should call, perhaps you’ve finally woken from your fantasy. If you call, by the third ring you will convince yourself he’s moved on to a better home, a better bed, a better daughter and hang up. If you hang up, you will want to escape again. If you want to escape, you will indulge in youthful distractions: origami and children’s books and Disney movies. If you indulge, you will forget. If you forget, the ice cream truck will play music and kids will hear it first.