The gelato shop door stands unassumingly small and plain against the chaotic, loud world outside, a tiny portal that beckons quietly. I pass through to find her waiting behind the counter, smiling, magic wands disguised as small spoons at the ready.

I request a taste of Vanilla Bean, and one of the magic spoons dips into the peppered, milky white dream. The cold flavor melts upon my tongue, but it is not Vanilla Bean at all. It is the ether canvas upon which to paint life-long loves, the cool evenings of forever summers, spent sitting at the large table by Nana’s side, her smile and cup of tea perfectly warm.

Dark Chocolate comes the next spoon, but it too is not. It is the bittersweet memory of young adulthood, of growing older and losing the past that was, while your face still bathes warm in the glowing embrace of what is yet to come. I long for that past, and so I tumble into it.

Fig & Marscapone—perfectly sweet. I am so small, the tree seemingly so large. Climbing the branches, tucked away in a fortress of fruit and foliage, I hide, an adventurous, mischievous moment all to myself. I pluck a fig leaf from its stem, fascinated by the size and shape.

It takes what seems like but an eye’s blink for the Hot Masala Milk Chocolate to melt away the sweetness of a childhood crush and give way instead to the fiery passion of a first kiss.

Guinness, those college days in the company of close friends. We laugh impossibly long laughs, tomorrow never a thought nor a care.

But tomorrow came and went, and with it I find myself standing here, before the windowed counter, looking at chilled bins overflowing with times and tears, people and places, memory strong in them all.

One final spoon is offered, but I refuse. Pistachio. “I don’t eat it,” I insist. “Do you trust me?” she asks, knowing. I take it. Hesitation. Papa splits the shells with his fingers. His hands are worn, knobby, still strong. The sound as the nut’s hard casing beaks. The green on his fingers. Mom is beside him, the small tray between them. The sand is warm, our bare feet buried in it. The cassette player pours Andrea Bocelli’s flawless voice into the summer air. I smile at Nana next to me, hiding from the sun under her wide-brimmed hat, scarf pulled tight about her neck. I cannot see her eyes behind the dark sunglasses, but I know that they are filled with love as she smiles back. Time is stopped, perfect. Forever perfect.

The spoon slides slowly from my tongue as tears wet my cheeks. I turn to the gelato maker and ask, overwhelmed, voice quivering, “How? How did you do it?”

Her expression of joy and delight never changes, hasn’t yet once. “I made it with passion, filled it with love. And then I gave it all back to the world to enjoy. That’s the secret . . . to making gelato, to living life.”

I take two tubs and her advice, promising to return again.