Disappointment

He's standing at the open window, his left hand in his mouth, anxiously biting his nails.

He's waiting for the ice cream truck.

I promised him that we could buy a treat today, so all afternoon he's been a mess of jangling nerves, listening intently for the tell-tale melody, hollering, "Is that it? Mom, is that it?" from his room at naptime.

Every car that drives by brings him back to the window.

"Do you think that ice cream truck is in traffic?" he asks, watching me type.

I can't explain why, but today, there's something wrenching about this. It's tied into the fact that he's four, and that right now in time, a Spiderman-shaped popsicle is all it takes to make him happy.

"Maybe the guy thinks it's going to rain?" "Or maybe sick?"

He's peering up at the sky now, pondering.

He sighs. "It's coming a little late."

I want to keep it things this simple, shield him somehow from the real disappointments coming for him later in life. I want the truck to pull around the corner, and to watch him light up.