My grandmother ate my ice cream sandwiches.
Had she eaten them and thrown the wrappers away, I’d have been annoyed, but it wouldn’t have been a tragedy.
Had she eaten them and left the wrappers on the counter, I’d have been annoyed, but I’d have been okay.
Had she eaten them partially, and frozen what she didn’t eat, I’d have been upset, but that would have been salvagable. I’d just have finished them off.
But instead, she took an ice cream sandwich from the freezer. Unwrapped it. Took a bite. Set it down on the counter. And forgot about it. Whereupon it melted and made a giant mess.
And then she did this again.
Puddles of ice cream sandwiches weren’t what I wanted to find in the kitchen this morning.
There was one left in the freezer. I ate it for breakfast. I didn’t want a tragic fate — like melting, unloved, on the kitchen counter — to befall an ice cream sandwich — banana split flavor, no less — that had done nothing to deserve it.
It was the only right thing to do.
I’ll mourn for its siblings.
Those ice cream sandwiches! The tragedy!
I don’t know that I’ll ever be the same again.