we all scream

“This would be a good night for ice cream,” I tell myself Sunday afternoon, knowing I’d have to get back in the Camry – which I’ve driven two miles in these last three days – and drive to Trader Joe’s and buy a pint of Mint Chip, which would break an ice cream-less spell since my birthday last January, when I went wild with sugar and a laughing birth certificate. This on a weekend without spoken words, beyond a few disclaimers whispered to my alone-self – perhaps a grand total of two minutes worth in the past 60 hours – and here’s me ready to break the wordy fast, and yet, hesitant enough that I stand earlier at the counter in Starbucks hoping the barista will just know what I want, before finally uttering, “Grande 1971,” a veritable Gettysburg Address of blathering, when Thursday night through Sunday noon’s vow of not a word spoken was pretty much that very thing.

Still, ice cream…….mint chip. The Beatles’ “I Call Your Name” says it – “Don’t you know I can’t sleep at night, but just the same. I never weep at night, I call your name.” There’s me calling, lips quiet, tongue still.

Sitting here, borrowed-recliner, early afternoon late July. There’s an upswell of magic about. Because you subscribe, you hear.