The end of the ice cream shop
Mourning a job, a hangout spot, and a little corner of joy where my life unfolded.
For a little while, I worked at the town’s ice cream shop, and it felt like I had everything I needed. A job, a routine, a reason to be somewhere after school, and a spot where all my friends would eventually show up: even when I wasn’t on the schedule. I loved it there more than I could ever explain, even then.
I learned more about math scooping ice cream than I ever did sitting in class. At the register, there was no room for guessing. I had to know exactly how much change to give, and I had to be fast, accurate, and calm under pressure. I didn’t want to get in trouble with the owner, who wasn’t strict but definitely didn’t have time for sloppiness. I rose to that. I liked being trusted with something real.
I liked the banana splits too. And pistachio, which I never got tired of sneaking a taste of. Some afternoons, halfway through cleaning the counter, I’d find a little leftover in the tub. It felt like a reward I didn’t need to justify. But what I remember most are the people who walked in. The ones who weren’t regulars, who had clearly been saving up for the occasion. You could tell by the way they paused at the door, hesitated before asking for their flavor. I always made sure to give them the best scoop. Extra sprinkles. A little more than they were expecting. Something that felt like a celebration. I’d watch their eyes light up and tuck the moment away like it was mine too.
Every once in a while, he’d come in. Just him, or with a friend. My heart would stir the moment I saw him at the door. I’d act unfazed behind the counter, but he knew. He always knew. The way he smiled, the pause before he paid… it unraveled me. One visit, and it would be the highlight of my entire week.
Then there were the slow days. Rain tapping on the window, clouds hanging low, the street almost still. Hours could pass without a single customer. I’d sit behind the counter in silence, watching the puddles gather, listening to Enya on the CD player. That music made the waiting feel satisfying, somehow. Like I wasn’t alone in it and the day had something to teach me if I stayed still long enough.
When the shop closed, there was no real warning. The owner said the numbers weren’t working, that he couldn’t keep going with just a bunch of teenagers buying cones and hanging around every day. We were the shop’s most loyal customers—and its worst business model. I understood. But that didn’t make it easier.
I walked by a few days later and still half-expected to see the lights on. Still expected to hear the freezer buzzing or see the shadow of someone leaning over the counter, deciding between chocolate and coconut. I didn’t know where we were supposed to go now, where the new hangout spot would be, or if anything could feel quite the same.
That shop held so many memories. Long conversations with friends while pretending to mop the floor. Afternoons when we laughed so hard we forgot what we were supposed to be doing. Moments with people I barely knew that somehow meant more than they should’ve. It gave structure to my days and made me feel capable. Seen. Part of something.
And then, it was over.
There wasn’t anything dramatic about it, but it’s one of my first losses. I only realize later what it gave me: confidence, connection, a sense of my place in the world. I still think about it sometimes. Not in a nostalgic way exactly, but in the way you remember something that made you better without asking for anything in return.
We all had a place like that once. Mine just happened to smell like waffle cones and freezer air. And for a while, it was my whole world.
Freezer Hums
As I revisited this memory, a melody came to me, like the hum of those empty afternoons. I turned it into a song.
You can listen to it here:
Freezer hums Sunlight fades Wooden spoons Plastic trays Pistachio green Sticky floors Your smile The gliding doors Enya played When no one came I felt the words And said your name The cold, the sweet The things I knew Ice cream melting Me, too
✶ This essay is part of From the Beginning, a personal series built from my diaries—one memory at a time. You’re reading 1998. Each piece revisits the girl I was, the world I came from, and the details I didn’t know I was already saving.
Evocative memories and poetic song - thank you.