02.15.05

every ending seems false

At twelve o’ clock, the little chubby cheeked stature of liberty strolled around the block. I can recognize her from far a way now, halfway down the road I can see her strange green and I know that she is pouting and the ground and listening to the music on her white iPOD that I cannot hear. There is something pleasing about seeing her there every day, dirty white sneakers poking out under everything.
I think that her coming reminds me of the ice cream truck when I was younger. I remember hearing the call, that saccharine simple song that blared from the speakers atop the truck and having all the little children of the neighborhood herd around. Everyone had just run to their mothers, taken what money they could, and ran out the door. We held the bills in our sweaty little palms, brown from the heat of the summer and perhaps, if we were lucks, from the mud of some worm or beetle.
We looked to the ice-cream man as a saviour, glowing in his uniform and then came the exchange. I would buy the Mickey Mouse popsicles because they had gumballs for eyes. The eyes were always frozen thought, and I could never eat them, but I think I liked the idea of getting more for my dollar.
Now too, I still get an urge to run when I hear the ice cream truck. I gave in once, but you find ice-cream men are not as nice when you are older. They do not glow like they used to, and the popsicles seem overrated and a bit overpriced. There is nothing so pure in a ball of coloured snow.

shi-ou-sama at 2:31 p.m.

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