Then telling them:
You were loved.
From the beginning.
By people you may have forgotten.
And it was real.
Ellie knows the story now.
She carries it with her.
So do I.
Every summer, when we hear the familiar music of an ice cream truck coming down our tree-named street, Ellie and I go outside together.
We each buy a strawberry shortcake bar.
Then we sit on the porch in the warm evening light.
And we always buy one extra.
We unwrap it.
Place it on a little plate between us.
And let it slowly melt.
For Walter.
For Margaret.
And for an entire neighborhood of children who once ran toward an ice cream truck without ever realizing how deeply they were loved.
