I hear the painfully out-of-tune siren of the ice-cream truck as it wanders into the neighborhood. A sound all on to itself. As it nears, I run out to the street. Novelty ice-cream, my heart skips for joy. What do I want is the question asked; a dreamsicle! It is all I have ever wanted. I loved them so long ago. Their orange hard outside, creamy vanilla inside. An entire little package of joy on a stick. Then a dreamsicle you shall have.

The excitement is overwhelming and my eyes are glazed over as the anticipation carries me. My hands reach out only to receive ice cream in a waxy paper cup. The colorful spoon is secured in the side waiting to help the cold sweet treat into my mouth.

This is not a dreamsicle. It is indeed cold. It has a slight vanilla flavor. There is no orange-flavored outer layer nor is it on a stick. Nope, most defiantly not a dreamsicle. I try to give it back yet the truck is moving on. Next time, I say consoling myself as I find joy in the cup. It is cold, and the day is hot.

The truck comes by later that week. I jump and run again to enjoy. This time I will get my dreamsicle, but once again a cup of ice cream is pushed into my waiting hands. I try not to accept it, but there is no arguing. I try to explain a dreamsicle. How important the stick is and how that stick is what makes it a novelty, not just ice cream. I wax on about how the goodness of the orange coat makes the inside even tastier. There is a nod of agreement. Great we have come to an understanding. Next time there will be a dreamsicle.

The truck, the jump, the racing of the heart. The request, the cup, the sink of a heart. It is orange this time, we are on a track. Yet, not quite on the right track. It is sherbet. No, defiantly not the right track. A wave as the truck moves on, its clanky bell and bad music blaring. I turn to walk back, straining my neck and eyes to watch the dreamsicle truck move on.

I start to wonder if maybe it is the truck. Maybe I asked incorrectly, some say creamsicles, was their confusion? Maybe dreamsicles will come home in the grocery bag. I run to unload them and put the items away. Checking twice; there is no creamy treat on a stick. That is okay I tell myself; they are not as good as the ones on a truck. The store ones are stale and taste of the cardboard they have been crammed into. The truck will come.

The summer wanes as the truck comes more often. It knows I will run to its window. Only a cup in my hand as I walk away time and time again. I pretending to be satisfied with my cup. I say this is good but I would like to try a dreamsicle one day. Perhaps it will be heard and understood. Hope of that dreamsicle is what has carried me through the hot summer. Like the summer hope has also begun to fade.

The routine continues and my voice growing softer as the summer fades into fall. The cups continue to come. I chose to enjoy the ice cream for what it is. A less painful choice than the reminder of it not being the dreamsicle promised so long ago. I work on telling myself that dreamsicles are not real. Maybe they do not taste as good as I remembered. I try to make my mind tell me that I never really liked dreamsicles anyway.  

The window slides open, but today I don’t even ask. My voice has left and my head is already as numb as the cup of ice cream will make it. The cup, the plastic spoon. Let it go, I tell myself. It was not a replacement. It was the replacement. The realization sets in as I walk back to the house. It had been in front of me this whole time. You never had a dreamsicle in the truck.