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.
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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.)
