Mr. Softee
It’s March first, my bedroom windows are open. I see both Comcast skyscrapers from my window, blocked only by the metal mesh screen on my second floor bedroom window. I hear the Mr. Softee’s tinny jingle for the first time of the season. Mr. Softee is to spring and summer time as Christmas Carols are to December. The worst of winter has waned (I pray). New blooms and warmer, friendlier breezes are making their way into my world. Mr. Softee’s song travels around my block.
This song is an anthem of my youth. It sings of sweet, sweaty summer nights sitting on my front stoop with Mom, Dad, the boys, our next door neighbors, Mr. And Mrs. Lack, and their golden retriever. I wait with the highest level of anxiety a child can feel, Anticipation. We all sit on the steps as Mr. Softee serves the kids in the next cul-de-sac over. After an eternity, he pulls up at the end of the street, by the big navy mailbox, and I dash over. I order, what else, but a vanilla cone with rainbow jimmies. A classic.
There are long stretches of my childhood that are shadowy and forgotten, but this summer routine remains crystal clear. Now, in my apartment, alone, the jingle still rings bells of nostalgia in my mind. If I close my eyes now and listen intently enough, I know that when I open them, I’ll be back at Genesse Place in Northeast Philly. Mr. Lack will still be calling me “Rosy” and I’ll feel the concrete steps of our stoop scratching up against the back of my smooth thighs and palms.
I hear Mr. Softee’s jingle now, and for a fleeting breathe, the highest level of anxiety I feel is Anticipation. Anticipation for the warmth I thought would never again come after the coldest Philly winter in a decade. Anticipation for potted basil sprouting on my city porch. Anticipation for the park down the block to burst once again with pale lemony yellows and limey greens. I want to keep that kind of anxiety close to my chest. I want to often recall the moments of youthful purity that feel so out of reach in this weird mud of my early-20’s post graduation. I can see a future me releasing the tight coil of tension causing constant questioning of my path and plan. I just want to lick the rainbow jimmies and let the vanilla soft serve drip through my jaded fingers and onto the cool concrete.
