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Okay, so I have an uncle.

When I was a kid, he was always finding free stuff, free jewelry, free wallets, full of cash in somebody else's ID, free cars.

But this magical, marvelous Detroit summer afternoon, I'm hanging out at my grandmother's front porch with my cousins.

My uncle rolls through.

Come here.

Cases over to his color supreme, pops open the trunk, and there.

Packed into the back of the car are cartons and cartons and cartons of ice cream.

Strawberry, chocolate, vanilla.

What?

He hands us these tiny wooden spoon things.

Y'all better move quick. It's about to melt.

This cannot be happening. We don't ask no questions. Lickety spit.

We start snatching spoons and cartons and devouring ice cream until we catch the brain freeze.

Then we gobble some more. Neighborhood kids come

running and their parents come running too. Ice cream for everybody. Strawberry, chocolate, chocolate,

strawberry. I don't even like vanilla. But it's the principle of the thing. Principalities. So I stuffed that into my mouth as well.

Fingers, faces, foreheads, laugh, and sticky. We keep gorging our yaps with the urgency of poor kids who know that every good thing will soon be snatched away.

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