Deftly maneuvering my small dinged up car into a tight parking space, I pause to briefly savor the last grain of salt on my meal of french fries before reaching to turn off the ignition. My ears take a moment to adjust to the absence of the blaring radio. A faint melody teases me with its unrecognizability. My eyes dart back to the lights of the dash. No, that's off. The cell phone? Wrong song. My mind races to do a quick check of other devices that might emit such a sound. I start to panic as I realize that none of them are responsible for the tune. Has it finally happened? Can I no longer distinguish between the music in my head and reality?
Taking a breath of fresh crisp air as I step out of the car, I notice my surroundings. A kid no older than 8 bikes down the sidewalk. Some homes have welcome mats in front of their doors. The lawns look well cared for and the flowers are in full bloom. Just as suburbia registers, I realize I've forgotten my youth and the joys of that sound: the song of the ice cream truck that finally comes into view.