Two ice cream trucks, at rakish angles.
“Turkey in the Straw,” long since silenced.
Once upon a more simple time, they rumbled through quiet neighborhoods in rural Massachusetts, flanked on all sides by kids of all ages.
Legs churned, arms waved. Dimes glinted in the afternoon sunshine.
“Snow Cones, Push-up Pops, Creamsicles…come and get yours!”
A single row of barbed wire runs along the outside edges of the pasture where these utilitarian vehicles came to rest. They are nested, now, in tangles of ivy.
Hard to believe that the rust-covered metal was once a glossy white. The wiper blades are arthritic; the headlights, bleary.
Shredded tires are stashed on the floor, and the windows are smeared with nature’s residue.
Tired sentries, standing guard over the happy moments they once delivered:
Sweet frozen treats on hot summer days, tucked behind decorated metal awnings.
Their time has clearly come and gone.
At the end of an old gravel road, within the loose confines of a pasture, someone’s mowed the grass around these time machines.
Their engines are long gone, and their beauty has long since faded. But maybe, just maybe– if we squint our eyes, just a little, and tilt our heads just so–nostalgia will carry us back to those blue-sky moments of our childhood.