My father orders black raspberry ice cream. The soft serve sits on the cone in a beautiful dark purple twist. Ick, my 7-year-old self says, greedily taking my own sprinkle-covered chocolate delight. Try it, my father says, putting the cone to my lips. I take a small bite. It is heavenly. Decades later, I couldn’t find black raspberry ice cream as he withered away in a hospice bed. I would have given anything to put a spoonful to his lips. When I do find it someday, I will savor its creamy tartness on my tongue, and smile at that day’s memory.
