SaraEve Fermin

We Get Ice Cream, 2013

My mother is well enough to walk today, so we take advantage of this. Three generations of women spill out of the minivan, all laughs and wise cracks, jokes that go over my mother’s head, words that my not yet three year old niece will not understand for two more. For half an hour we can forget about our past, act like how I think functioning families do. For half an hour my sister’s tattoos are only ink from a needle, not earmarks for every year she gave to the addiction. For half an hour my mother can sit comfortable and not talk about her pain, her doctor, her pills, her collar and her cane. For half an hour we can forget that I left my medication at home, can forget that every second is an electronic misfiring waiting to happen. Instead, we let the baby eat ice cream on her own for the first time, laugh as she is startled by the complexity of the cold sweet pumpkin custard, snap photos as she smears it across her face across of her own accord, as she licks and forgets to swallow in her excitement. Laugh at the smudge of ice cream on my mother’s chin. Laugh as my sister rattles off story after story, Do you remember that time? Laugh because for the first time, in the long time, the three of us can.


SaraEve is a performance poet and Epilepsy Advocate from New Jersey. Her work has been or is forthcoming in several journals including GERM Magazine, Yellow Chair Review and University of Hell Press’ ‘We CanMake Your Life Better: A Guidebook to Modern Living’. Her newest book ‘You Must Be This Tall To Ride‘ is available from Swimming With Elephants Publishing. She loves foxes and Instagram, follow her: SaraEve41