One of my earliest memories of my Dad is watching him walk up the path that led to our home in Korea.
One evening, my Mom let me wait out front. I don’t know how long I waited. I stood, straining my eyes in the dark. When my Dad finally made his way to our home, I could barely make out his face from the distance. I looked at his hands and he was carrying a brown paper bag. I jumped up and down, holding my breath. I knew what was in the bag.
I ran to him and he handed me the cold paper bag. In it was a small box of ice cream. I carried the bag inside, carefully cradling it in my small hands. I’m sure the ice cream was creamy and sweet and I must have enjoyed eating it.
Now as an adult, I don’t drink alcohol or smoke or do drugs. I don’t have any vices other than ice cream. The idea of ice cream is comforting to me.
Yesterday, I spent the day with a friend of mine and her daughter. On our way back home, we stopped and got a Father’s Day ice cream cake for her husband and also her father.
Today, I woke up wanting a cold carton of ice cream.
It’s not the taste I crave. I want to hold it in my hands and remember my Dad.