One Spoke of the Bhavachakra

C. L. Carol
Sep 17, 2020 · 2 min read

The spokes keep turning, one at a time. A poem.

Photo by Corina Rainer on Unsplash

One Spoke of the Bhavachakra

I say to her, Hey — we should go back to my place
I can make us a couple peanut butter ice cream sundaes

This was and it wasn’t innuendo
It was just that the evening had gone so well
The only way to end such an evening
Was with peanut butter ice cream sundaes
Like the kind my grandmother used to make
With fresh ice cream and homemade peanut butter

She hesitates; thinking about it
What kind of ice cream?

Vanilla, I say to her, the boring kind
And then I catch myself —
Maybe she was more of a chocolate kind of gal —
So I try to save it and explain that
When you pair it with peanut butter it takes on this
Kind of
Orgasmic —

Did I just say orgasmic?

She chuckles
Maybe next time
Smiles and kisses me lightly
Thanks for a fun night

I go home alone
And I make myself a peanut butter ice cream sundae
Start to think about that word “maybe”

Maybe that word wasn’t as important as “next time”
Maybe it was

All I know is

Sometime in the 1970s, my father met my mother at a soda shop
Sometime in the 1950s, my grandfather met my grandmother at a sock hop
And sometime in the 1930s, my great grandfather met my great grandmother at a market
This goes back and back, for all of us; the same story, just different circumstances
Premised upon a “next time,” which, for some of us, meant peanut butter ice cream sundaes

A week goes by
Followed by another
She reaches out, but I’ve already made plans
I reach out, but she’s already made plans

It happens this way for a while

Until one night

And then after — years pass
Suddenly I’m standing in the kitchen
About to make my wife a peanut butter ice cream sundae
When my daughter asks me a question

There’s this boy she likes
And they want to see a movie together
She wants to know what movie

I tell her to pick one that’s not too serious
But appreciates the little things

Like peanut butter ice cream sundaes? She asks

I smile and try to think of something a dad should say here
But she’s already asking my wife
Whether the ribbon in her hair goes with her shoes

I hand my wife her bowl and she takes a spoon full
Of vanilla ice cream and homemade peanut butter

She asks me if we were that way once
And I assure her — yes, most definitely, and not so long ago

The Last Call Express

At the end of every journey, there’s a story.

C. L. Carol

Written by

When one is lost, it is not the absolute number of days that is important. It is the vast uncertainty that consumes every moment. (The Serpent and the Rainbow)

The Last Call Express

At the end of every journey, there’s a story. A publication to toast travel experiences, uncover new ways of life, and to wander deeper along the roads less traveled.

C. L. Carol

Written by

When one is lost, it is not the absolute number of days that is important. It is the vast uncertainty that consumes every moment. (The Serpent and the Rainbow)

The Last Call Express

At the end of every journey, there’s a story. A publication to toast travel experiences, uncover new ways of life, and to wander deeper along the roads less traveled.

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