Ice Cream

From the Archive Aug. 28, 2008


I found Central Asia in a cup of ice cream the other day.
I stood in the parking lot, spoon in hand, as I realized what has happening. I never expected it, never saw it coming, but there it was; sounds, smells and sights faded, tinged with time and distance.
And almost superimposed, like an epiphany in another language, I saw my surroundings.
The bustling, dusty streets of Central Asia were replaced with the paved, sporadically quiet streets that intersected nearby. I stood between the gas pump and my car and listened to the muted sounds of people talking in a nearby vehicle. They spoke my own language. The smells were different too from the memory playing in my mind: cleaner, less infected, but also less fresh.
As I thought about it some time later, this time eating ice cream that was only ice cream, I realized it was a gift and a promise of sorts.
A gift- a quiet, peaceful moment in the middle of an otherwise less-than-pleasant day.
A promise, a whispered, "I am here too."
But in that moment, on that day, I ate slowly; relishing the travel it allowed me.