Every Sunday afternoon I buy an ice cream bar to reward myself for surviving the week before. I either sit on the curb at the convenience store or I drive up to the mosaiced seat overlooking the port to enjoy my weekly indulgence. I rest on that warm concrete seat as I slowly devour my melting dreamcicle. On rare warm windless days I become one with everything as I sink into a musical time warp of sputtering and whooshing vehicles, the tolling bell buoy, chugging fishing boats returning with their catch, barking dogs with their humans on the beach below, the soft pattering of my heart, and in the distance my view of Humbug Mountain anchored in the abyss of the ocean.
It's at times such as this that I commune with my thirteen year old self when papa and I hiked up the two hour switchback to the top of Humbug Mountain. Back then we could see forever in all directions and anything was possible. If I had gazed intensely enough through the shimmering air I might have been able to see myself as I am now. Then, as now, we rewarded ourselves with yummy snacks and our favorite sodas. After lazily soaking up the warmth of the meadow and its loquacious melodies, the return hike through that time warp was much faster, like the wind itself rushing us along to return to our present.
The one thing that never seems to change is the occasional changing direction of the wind and a few days of bliss between the wind tunnel days of our lives. So it was when I was young and still is now that I am much older with my days dripping away like that dreamcicle.
by tjkolibaba
Dreamcicle ©2017
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