The First Summer Night
I would be a base of vanilla ice cream with sweet chunks of strawberries swirled all around me. The effect would not be “neon pink” you see in some ice cream store chains. No. Nothing but sweet cream and vanilla and sun-ripened strawberries ready to be made into an evening’s sweet ending.
Imagine an old farm house, with a rectangular wooden table, sitting in a country kitchen; a jug of wildflowers, purple and orange, bend quietly from the soft breeze, like dancers, in a slow, dance. Outside, the moon is bright, glowing, children chase fireflies, mom and dad sit on old, comfy porch chairs with flowered cushions, waiting for the right moment to call the kids inside. It’s “TIME” to race in and knock into each other laughing to get through the kitchen door. The family surrounds the table eager to dip their assorted teaspoons into freshly made, first of the season, home-made strawberry ice-cream. The full moon shines down on them from way high in the sky, gives a little smile and winks.