My father would always make homemade ice cream
on what we call the picnic holidays.
4th of July, Memorial Day.
And he tried to outdo himself making the most
outlandish combinations whatsoever.
This particular sherbet, grape sherbet,
was one that we loved because it was entirely imaginary.
Nobody knows what grape tastes like.
You just don't know.
And this one occurs on the day that I also found, as a child,
very vexing, because it was Memorial Day.
And we would go out and visit the graves in the morning,
and then everyone would forget about it
and then have these amazing picnics.
And as a child, I didn't understand
that switch between somber regard
and the shenanigans of the adults.
"Grape Sherbet."
"The day, Memorial.
After the grill dad appears with his masterpiece, swirled snow,
gelled light, we cheer.
The recipe is a secret, and he fights a smile,
his cap turned up so the bib resembles a duck.
That morning, we galloped through the grass over mounds
and named each stone for a lost milk tooth.
Each dollop of sherbet later is a miracle,
like salt on a melon that makes it sweeter.
Everyone agrees it's wonderful.
It's just how we imagined lavender would taste.
The diabetic grandmother stares from the porch,
a torch of pure refusal.
We thought no one was lying there under our feet.
We thought it was a joke.
I've been trying to remember the taste, but it doesn't exist.
Now I see why you bothered, Father."