It was pitch dark.
As Roseanne and I walked along the park in Spring Lake.
Searching for the last ice cream shop still open.
She arrived late by train from Manhattan.
The only adult child able to join us for our trifecta celebration.
Birthday, Anniversary, Father’s Day.
So, our dinner began later, too.
Long and leisurely.
Also known as slow service.
Sitting outside as the sun set after nine.
This town, quiet, sedate.
Even on Saturday nights, places shutting down early.
Bob urged Roseanne and me to set out.
He, staying behind to pay the bill.
Neither of us, sure where the dessert place was.
We marched, hoping in the right direction.
It was hard to follow the google map app directions.
Who can read street signs without light?
Let alone see the sidewalk ahead.
Street lamps, either extinguished or dim.
Call Dad, Roseanne suggested.
I resisted saying we’d either find it or not.
Thinking we wouldn’t make it before closing.
But, he’ll tell us if we’re close or not, she insisted.
Again, I demurred.
Okay, she shrugged, he’ll soon be calling you.
Then she mimicked his voice, I’m here. Where are you?
Only ten steps later, the phone dinged.
I’m here at the shop. Where are you? Bob asked.
Then he reassured us we were on the right path.
I turned to Roseanne, how did you know he’d call?
She laughed like Brer Rabbit at the briar patch.
You two are a comedy routine.
She knows us like a book.
Fifty years observing us
with scrutinizing look!
Lynn Benjamin
June 15, 2024
