It was only six months ago that I sat drenched in a current of heat with a small cup of ice cream.
In the capital city of the country Bhutan, I sat with a girl named Dolma and stared blankly at the perfectly round scoop of frozen dairy and sugar that lay before me.
I squinted through the blinding summer sun and gazed around the black chairs and tables that covered the patio’s concrete floor.
I considered the ice cream, which withered in size as faceless bodies tore into them.
Despite being molded from the same iron half sphere, each scoop of the frozen treat was different, with slightly altered shapes, combinations, variations, and toppings.
“Eat your ice cream before it melts” was the cry of a mother as her daughter entered into the scalding heat from the cool safety of the parlor.
Guilt ran across my face as I turned towards the rainbow sprinkled vanilla that seemed to sink into the bottom of the cup, with a spoon shoved dramatically into it.
The white liquid that began to accumulate steadily rose, engulfing the once perfect scoop.
Then I realized…
I swung my arm forward to choke the spoon.
The melted ice cream… the wasted opportunity.
Never again will it be in its perfect, ideal form.
I will try to save what’s left before it all melts under the sun...