The other day, I found a small box of strawberry-flavored happiness in our staff freezer. It brought on a flashback: It's Saturday in 1972 and I hear an ice cream truck's tinny song in the near distance. I ask mom for a quarter and hop on my only mode of transportation: a purple, banana-seated bike with chopper-style handlebars. I pause at the intersection by our house and perk up my ears like a wild animal on the hunt. The sound is on the move again, headed away from me. I pedal after it…
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