Today, I stopped for ice cream.
I had a half hour to kill before picking Geoff up at camp, and a book in my hand, and felt a little peckish for some soft serve twist in the shade.
A little blonde girl and her mom joined me at the shady table.
And I saw Jessica and myself, 16 years ago, as the ice cream was enjoyed. The little girl dripped chocolate all over her lavender t-shirt, and wispy strands of hair stuck in the corners of her mouth. Her mother wiped them away gently, and we talked about ice cream and how wonderfully happy it makes us.
"Ice cream doesn't make me happy," she said. I told her I didn't believe her.
"Ice cream makes me ... very happy!" was her response.