Ice cream and the Dark Space in Heaven
My memory began when I was ten. The year was 1978. School was out. It was the beginning of summer vacation. It was a peculiar day that day. My mom called us in to have dinner. I was reluctant from having to wrench myself from a game I was playing with the neighborhood kids. What game? That I couldn’t remember. I think it was “it”—as in “Tag! You’re it!” I grudgingly came inside and took a quick bite—literally one bite—of the fish fillet that mom had made. Until this day, I wish I had eaten that meal completely, down to…