The Cemetery
New Jersey has a reputation for bad drivers and a chronic stench, which is often attributed to landfills, sewage, or burning rubber. However, this is the scent I smelled when I was born and thus I am immune to it. When people reference the New Jersey Stink, I tell them to instead consider the thick, sugary fragrance flooding from the door of my grandparents’ favorite gelateria. When the door opens, even a blind man knows where he is.
The gelateria is located mere feet from a cemetery, so we affectionately call it “the Cemetery.”
“Grandma, can we go to the Cemetery?” my sister and I peep at my grandmother, who happily gives in. It’s always stracciatella for me, chocolate for Yael, pistachio for my grandpa, and coffee for my grandma. At the Cemetery, kids from other families gaze over the fence at the tombstones. I think about laying my cone down like a bouquet. Instead, I lick the drips that threaten to roll onto my hand.
Recently, my grandmother had her 81st birthday, sending me a selfie holding a coffee ice cream cone. The caption?
“We went to the Cemetery!” It turns out gelato is the only way to return from the dead.
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