Childhood memories are relived during the consumption of an ice cream sundae

Synan, Sarah

English

College of the Holy Cross: CrossWorks

College of the Holy Cross CrossWorks Montserrat Annual Writing Prize Montserrat (First-Year Program) 4-8-2021 Sundae Sarah Synan College of the Holy Cross, srsya24@g.holycross.edu Follow this and additional works at: https://crossworks.holycross.edu/mont_prize  Part of the Creative Writing Commons Recommended Citation Synan, Sarah, "Sundae" (2021). Montserrat Annual Writing Prize. 5. https://crossworks.holycross.edu/mont_prize/5 This Article is brought to you for free and open access by the Montserrat (First-Year Program) at CrossWorks. It has been accepted for inclusion in Montserrat Annual Writing Prize by an authorized administrator of CrossWorks. SundaeBy Sarah SynanWe stand in line, damp bathing suits soaking through cotton t-shirts and denim shorts, oldnavy flip-flops sinking into the muddy grass. The backyard is a battlefield. Technicolor bits oflatex scatter the ground, the bullet casings of our previous bloodbath. It commenced on the backlawn, boys sneaking around the side of the house with the balloons, plump from cold hose water.The girls anticipated this attack and bent over the splintery wooden dock, filling up super soakerswith temperate, murky lake water. Aunts and uncles sheltered on the patio, tipsy, sangria in hand,threatening any cousin who got too close with their weapon of choice.Only one thing was enough to make us abandon our annual Fourth of July massacre. Icecream sundaes. The aunts opened the flimsy screen door, and paraded out to the picnic table,delicious dairy dessert in hand. It was a mad rush to get in line, often followed by arguments ofwho gets to cut who because they’re older or bigger, followed by some standing back to backwhile the rest of us argue if Julia or Kyle is taller. We are distracted momentarily, but nothing cankeep our minds off of ice cream for long. We reach the front of the line and our moms scoop icecream into our plastic dishes. The picnic table stretches out, crammed with bowls of toppings,and jars of sauces that we promptly spill all over the plastic dollar store tablecloth. Ice creamsundaes are a time machine back to those summers in New Hampshire. No matter where I am,when the amalgam of those sickly sweet ingredients dance on my tongue, I’m back at Half MoonLake again.1I’m no longer this hopeful preteen wishing to grow up faster; I am grown up. And I’m notunder the sun surrounded by relatives as far as the eye can see- I’m alone in my dark kitchen,yearning for a reminder of a previous life. I start from the top, knocking my cherry aside to savethe best for last and target the fluffy cloud of whipped cream that I haphazardly covered the bowlwith. When the spoonful of pillowy heaven melts in my mouth, I am on my uncle’s boat. It istied to the dock, cousins sprawled out on the leather seats and damp, carpeted floor. I lay at thefront, my body spread over the cushioned bench, using a towel as a blanket. I drift in and out ofsleep, hearing every other word of a conversation my sister is having with our older cousin aboutstarting high school in the fall. That night when I go to sleep in my own bed, I will feel the gentlerock of the boat heaved up by the rippling lake, hear the water lapping gently against the fadedwooden pillars holding up the dock, and feel the sinking afternoon sun fanning my closedeyelids, a spattering of sunburn developing on my freckled cheeks.Next, the whipped cream uncovers hot fudge sauce lacing over the slippery chocolate icecream peaks. The rich fudge cuts through the cold cream, and the different textures andtemperatures compete in my mouth. I am back in the living room of my aunt and uncle’s littleshack by the lake. Most of our relatives have gone for the night, leaving behind a hardy crewready for the encore of the evening. We sit at the dimly lit oval table, cards in hand, snack bowlsnearby. My mom is driving home, so my dad has another beer, unwinding and joking with myuncles. He silently puts two fingers up to his eyes and then jabs them back at me. You’re goingdown. At the opposite end of the table, I gossip with my sister and younger cousin, while Isnuggle up in the thick cotton of my oversized hoodie against the summer night chill coming infrom the screen door, along with the sound of cicadas. We laugh and poke fun at each other, anddollar bills change hands as rounds of games go on.2All that is left at the bottom of the bowl is the cherry, the finale. The assault of syntheticmaraschino sugar on my tastebuds is pleasurable. The explosion of flavor takes me back to thegravel road running by the lake house. We walk loudly, the rocks grinding under our sandals,pairs of us talking excitedly about what’s to come. We reach the small cul-de-sac at the end ofthe road and lay our towels down on the grass. The field across from the neighbor’s houseprovides the perfect view over the hardy pine trees to the sky. It’s not just the stars we areinterested in, but the fireworks. They shoot off from the neighbor’s yard at clumsy intervals. I layperpendicular on my mom’s stomach and my cousin lays on my legs. My hand creeps off thetowel and caresses the cool grass as my eyes are hypnotized by the dazzling colored lights of thehomemade fireworks show. The finale comes in an explosion. My sister giggles and covers herears next to me but I allow my senses to be immersed, like letting my eyes and ears fill with lakewater.The cherry flavor fades from my tongue and the vision of the fireworks dissolves beforemy eyes. I’m back in my kitchen in Massachusetts. I place my dish in the sink, and rinse thesugary residue from the bowl until the porcelain gleams white.3

Sundae

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