It can be heard in the distance long before I see it.
Circling.
Taunting.
Every year I know it’s coming.
Mocking me.
With its sing-song voice.
I pause.
Hoping that we will escape its reign of terror.
But no. It is not to be. It’s rounded the corner. It’s coming for us.
I try to gather the children. To shield their eyes.
But it’s too late.
They’ve made eye contact. It’s over.
They have won.
I am defeated.
Fucking ice cream truck.