One crisp wafer cone. Two scoops of chocolate ice cream, hastily piled. Third Sunday of June, every year.
Lonely walk across unruly grass that tickles at exposed ankles, in search of a serenity found only among abandoned tombstones.
When you arrive, a tearful, tender whisper to yourself: “Happy Father’s Day.”
Carrie is morose, taciturn, and perpetually hungry, but only one of these traits is inherited from her father.