Sometimes the sky is just the sky, but sometimes it’s a Creamsicle Pop from the Good Humor Man on a Wednesday afternoon in August, with Jimky and Rosa and Larry Leggs lined up behind me waiting their turn while I, not in any kind of a hurry, pull the wrapper from the sweaty slick of ice and lick it once, twice, again, my tongue itchy and tingly while their tongues hang out with longing.
This August memory comes from Vyse Avenue in the Bronx, early 1960s. I wrote this sentence a couple years ago in a writing circle at Emma's Writing Center when the "spark" was to start with the word "Sometimes." As soon as I wrote that word on the paper, this memory sprang to mind. (Full disclosure: I led the workshop, and came up with the spark.)