Ice Cream Dinner

I think about it often, and I think about you often. But like all my thoughts now, you won’t know about them anymore. I will die someday and these thoughts will die too, and you won’t know.
We went to dinner one night, with your family. I was utterly embarrassed as I always am when eating in front of people who are not already aware of my slow eating habits. It could be a love for appreciating every bite. Or it could be just a habit I developed from all those days I was depressed.
We ordered a bunch of chicken wings, maybe 35. Mild. There were four of us eating them, and by the time I had finished four of them, the rest were gone. Everyone made comments, but really, I wasn’t hungry. Didn’t really care much if I felt hunger, it just meant I was alive.
I didn’t know you cared so much. You just never said it, but you always showed it.
I should have known better. Hindsight is never sweetly mannered.
After we paid and stepped outside, you said to me, “Do you want ice cream?” There was a Stewart’s across the street. “If you want some, then sure,” I told you. You nodded your head at me and said, “you want ice cream.”
So we crossed the busy street to the Stewart’s and you bought me a double scoop ice cream cone as well as a small one for yourself. You even bought one for your little sister.
You told me you didn’t want me to be hungry later.

It took me months to get myself to write this down.


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