Ice Cream

Last year, I went home to watch my father die–though I didn’t know it until I landed.

We gathered round him to sing and reminisce; to hold his hand and each other.

Twelve hours later, we were arranging logistics, designing a bulletin, planning the memorial.

One by one my siblings hopped their flights to head home, but there were still a few hours before mine.

Raw from crying, my mother, brother, and I ran out of things to say. We found ourselves in a booth at Dairy Queen, eating a Blizzard, a Buster Bar, a slushie, wondering, what next?