Taste the Rainbow 🌈

Daddy left me long before he died. I think he loved me, but life with me wasn't a cohesive fit. I think I loved him, too.

He was the biggest, strongest, most handsome man I knew. When I was young, he would lift me high on his shoulders. From that vantage point, I was invincible. He'd never let any harm come my way on his watch. Maybe that's why the bad things didn't happen until he was gone.

Still, there are special moments that echo in my mind, even 5 years after he breathed his last. 29 years before that he had already left the family. Not in the forever kind of way. Just in the way of abandonment. But this isn't about his failings. This is the celebration of those moments he was simply ... daddy.

Summer days in the Tri-State area tended to be scorching. South of the George Washington Bridge, we have the Garden State. Plenty of trees to find shade; a mere, momentary relief from the blistering sun. If we were lucky, frozen water bottles melted quickly so we could lap up as much ice water that leaked through plastic spouts as humanly possible. Of course, they never seemed to melt quickly enough as we ran ourselves ragged on the playgrounds that served as the meeting places for our summer camps.

But to the North, the concrete jungle we call New York City? Completely different atmosphere. My grandma used to say cute colloquialisms about being able to 'fry an egg on the sidewalk'. Sure, Brooklyn was home, but I take it she got that quip from her childhood spent in the deep South.

Daddy's stomping grounds were the South Bronx and Harlem. It's where we would come together as family. It was where the sounds, colors, and cultures clashed in a wonderful cacophony called Summertime. In fact, was it a complete day without running through an open hydrant, or walking by a group of rowdy young (and old) men playing craps? Guys cat calling the women of all ages, shapes, colors, and creeds- flashing as little (or as much) skin as they could to keep cool? Boomboxes blasting rap and hip-hop, while teenagers donning Cross Colors and daisy dukes sang along and/or danced?

To my point, summer was the reason to see and be seen around the boroughs. Carts of street meat and sweet smelling roasted nuts perfumed every corner. Pizza places boasting specials with slices as big as your head for $1.25 were aplenty. If you happened by a festival or parade, indigenous food vendors offered you everything from Caribbean cuisine to heavily salted pretzels to easily sate you.

Although daddy wasn't full time, he certainly found little ways to endear himself. You know - aside from the tall, handsome strong vibes he gave off. Our thing was so simple, it's almost laughable now. Multi-colored flavored ice. Not shaved ice- Italian ice.

Now, any true New Yorker can tell you the distinct difference between the two. "Sweaty ice" is how my older sister describes shaved ice to this day. Why? Well, these vendors are walking the ridiculously hot streets, sweating, carrying a towel to mop their weary brow. And some of them have a big block of ice and different syrups; the tool they use is a metal grate of sorts, in which they "shave" a layer of ice off the top, schlep it into a cup, and proceed to douse it with multi-flavored syrups. And most of these entrepreneurs, when they are done, cover their blocks of ice with a towel before moving on. The sweaty towel. So every time they stop, the towel is wet and cool for their foreheads again. The 80's and 90's were barbaric times, you may take it. We took it. Figuratively, at least - we wouldn't touch the stuff.

Anyway, the Italian ice came from more civilized vendors. Their carts were retrofitted with refrigerated containment capsules, with pre packaged icees. And the rainbow Italian ice was my favorite. As the rich cherry, blue raspberry, lemon, and lime flavors came crashing over my tastebuds, I was replete. And daddy would take my hand and smile at my stained lipped, and toothy grin. He knew his baby girl was happy in that moment, forgetting he wouldn't be there for bedtime.

I can honestly say that each family day, reunion, cookout, and block party attended with daddy was the same. Even if my older sisters didn't join us. Even if mommy fussed about the sugar level and my uneven appetite for the day. Even if grandma sneered at the man who she didn't quite deem man enough to do right by her daughter. Daddy and I had Italian ice, he held my hand, and carried me when I was too tired to walk.

As a grown woman, I can buy my own Italian ice. But everytime I taste the rainbow, it doesn't quite measure up to those little white cups, on the streets of New York, in the 90's. I think of daddy and how much he must have loved me. I think I loved him, too.