“Gather around children,” he says softly,
to his three granddaughters
who sit patiently around his wheelchair.

The voice trembles as he
adjusts his glasses and recites
the secret recipe.

“The key to the ice cream...”
he narrates, as kids lean over the kitchen bar.
“Not one, not two, but three.”

The children eagerly begin,
standing eye-level to
measuring cups.

“One...two...three…” they chant,
as they pour sugar, measure the cream,
and add vanilla.

Standing on tiptoes,
they peer into the
deep barrel of fixings.

Hands, feel frost bitten
from adding chunks of ice,
that make their hands tingle.

Minutes of foot tapping,
impatient arms crossed,
they long for the ice cream.

They all gather around the old man,
sitting with their bowls of ice cream.
One…two… three… scoops.