WEBVTT

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My father would always
make homemade ice cream

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on what we call the
picnic holidays.

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4th of July, Memorial Day.

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And he tried to outdo
himself making the most

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outlandish combinations
whatsoever.

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This particular
sherbet, grape sherbet,

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was one that we loved because
it was entirely imaginary.

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Nobody knows what
grape tastes like.

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You just don't know.

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And this one occurs on the day
that I also found, as a child,

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very vexing, because
it was Memorial Day.

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And we would go out and visit
the graves in the morning,

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and then everyone
would forget about it

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and then have these
amazing picnics.

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And as a child, I
didn't understand

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that switch between
somber regard

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and the shenanigans
of the adults.

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"Grape Sherbet."

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"The day, Memorial.

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After the grill dad appears with
his masterpiece, swirled snow,

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gelled light, we cheer.

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The recipe is a secret,
and he fights a smile,

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his cap turned up so the
bib resembles a duck.

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That morning, we galloped
through the grass over mounds

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and named each stone
for a lost milk tooth.

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Each dollop of sherbet
later is a miracle,

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like salt on a melon
that makes it sweeter.

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Everyone agrees it's wonderful.

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It's just how we imagined
lavender would taste.

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The diabetic grandmother
stares from the porch,

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a torch of pure refusal.

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We thought no one was
lying there under our feet.

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We thought it was a joke.

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I've been trying to remember
the taste, but it doesn't exist.

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Now I see why you
bothered, Father."

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