Memory Gift

Her head hurt. Pounded. A headache. They call it a headache. That's what her mother said when she pulled the shades in her bedroom, mumbled something about lying down and went to bed. "I have a headache."

Her father always closed the door quietly, and, with a whisper of "Don't tell your mother," made them each a coke float--one scoop of vanilla ice cream bobbing in a tall glass of Coca Cola.

"Headache medicine," he said. It was the only time he revealed the existence of Coca Cola in their house, the only time he made anything to eat or drink. Where did he hide it?

Even now, the sight of a Coke made her feel guilty and a little sad, remembering her mother in the darkened, the quiet, darkened room with a migraine, and she and her brother outside happily and silently slurping their secret indulgence. 

She laughed, shook her head, shook off the intensity of the memory, even as her head pounded, even as she rubbed her temples, even as she said out loud, "I have a migraine."

What to do?

Pull the shades and go to bed in the middle of the afternoon as he mother did?

Or?

Or?

Well, she had ice cream . . . and time. 

She could dash to the store, buy a Coke, be home in ten--maybe fifteen minutes.

Her head throbbed. 

Hard to think straight, probably shouldn't drive, but, well, she did it, drove less than a mile, made it to the store, made it home again, poured the coke, scooped the ice cream, and sipped it like the medicine it was--memory, sweetness, and caffeine.

Worked perfectly.