In India, we rarely tasted ice cream. Eating it held a risk due to any possible combination of unprocessed milk or unwashed hands or unfiltered water.
Such a sweet danger.
I recall a sunny, dry park where we six kids played all morning on a rare day out with Mom. Or maybe it wasn’t all six of us. Maybe four or five.
We were hot and thirsty, so before returning home, she promised to get us ice cream. Maybe we begged or maybe she offered.
We stood in line at the ice cream shop. I saw tubs of cold cream in bright colors behind wide glass windows. I saw Mom holding my little brother. I saw the ice cream again. Mom again. I saw the people standing before us in line.
Something was wrong.
It felt as if I was spinning in space, twirling with my arms out wide. But I was standing still; it was the world spinning around me. Once, twice.
In my clouding thoughts, I told myself the next time I saw Mom come into view, I would grab onto her to keep from falling. But she did not appear again. Instead, my world went from spinning to gray to black.
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