Corsicana My apostrophes,

Some days won’t budge. Yesterday was one of them.

I tried the usual tricks: a hot shower with music too loud for neighbors, a scribble in the notebook that went nowhere, even the thought of a quick drive just to change the view.

None of it worked. The mood clung like static.

That’s when I thought of ice cream for some reason. I am not a dairy guy, even ice cream.

But yesterday the craving struck deep, and not just any ice cream: a Good Humor strawberry shortcake bar. The kind the ice-cream man sold in Detroit when I was a kid.

I hadn’t thought of those in years, but the memory rose whole; the bell, the truck, the sprint down the block with a bill sweating in my hand.

And I decided: fine. I’ll chase that memory. I’ll buy the ice cream bar. Hell, I am a grown man. I’ll buy TWO ice cream bars.

I told you, “Let’s go for a ride,” and both of you snapped into readiness. You leapt into the back without question or hesitation, and we were off.

We drove to the corner 7-Eleven. I left you both in the car. Your faces followed me through the glass.

Inside, straight to the freezer case, hand reaching before my brain caught up. I don’t remember how much they cost; they could have been 20 bucks a pop. I didn’t care.

What I do remember is the choice. The choice to do something small, concrete, and selfish.

When I stepped back outside, there you were. Jadie, with your deep mocha gaze; Charlie, your nose smudging the window, panting a grin.

And that’s when the mood cracked. I saw it plain: I don’t get to carry my bad days alone.

You depend on me. You look to me for steadiness, the way I used to look for that ice-cream truck. I’m your constant, and the weight of that is also the lift. You pulled me back without a word.

We drove home slower. We watched baseball. You ate every crumb that fell off the bars, licked both wrappers clean.

You only needed the moment. I needed the moment.

You didn’t just fix my day. You reminded me the ice-cream man still comes, if you’re willing to chase him.