C. T. Suddeth

Ice cream as ritual

On our honeymoon, my wife and I journeyed to Waikiki. Every afternoon, we would get an ice cream cone and stroll the beach—saying little, just enjoying each other’s presence. When we got home, we would sneak away and grab a cone—little talk, just 2 souls intermingling.

Shadows enveloped us—we lived in hospice for 2 weeks. One evening, her son said she was unconscious. I knew his heart was breaking—I told him to go home (my 2 sons remained with me). Midnight came—it was now our 21^st anniversary with nothing to celebrate. A nurse brought me a cup of ice cream—I took one bite. My wife had been unresponsive, but her eyes fluttered open—I knew she wanted the ice cream, our bond with each other. I fed her the entire cup. Minutes later, she drew her last breath.

I now go to writing retreats with a Louisville group. We have a Saturday evening ritual of cherry cordial ice cream and moose track ice cream. I join, in my heart I am still feeding my wife ice cream. Time is but a veil.