Sunday Treats

The ice-cream parlor is just across the road from a small white clapper-board church. I sit in a window seat, watching the little town and the sidewalk as it moves people around, thought-reading their directions, as they go to, or come away from predictable starts and arrivals. Now the congregation is filing-out of the narrow church door. The pastor, has somehow teleported himself, to get up in front of them, he shakes hands and pats backs, knowing them all, perhaps knowing too much about some of them. Kids are corralled quickly, strapped into booster seats, or marshaled across to this store for ice-cream treats. It's just a little township, on a side-road to nowhere special. The ice-cream is homemade and delicious. I could trash-talk this hamlet, these people, these families, I am naturally cynical by nature, but I am in love with them all, and the ice-crem is always so good.