When my grandmother was a little girl, she used to chase the iceman down the block. As he slowly delivered much-needed chill for neighbor’s iceboxes, Marilyn followed behind his truck and collected falling ice chips. She cooled her forehead and let them melt on her tongue. Then the iceman turned the block and my grandmother and her friends waited in the Los Angeles heat for the Good Humor truck to chug down her street. Her favorite was the chocolate mint pop. Her friends preferred vanilla, but the Good Humor man knew what Marilyn wanted when she flipped him her dime. She and her friends ran up and down the block until the street lights came on. Then, hens called for their chicks, roosters returned to the coop, and flocks gathered in their nests for supper. My grandmother lived with 7 others in an apartment for 2. 1950 and my grandmother was 10.

Years later, in the manner of “The Circle Game,” cartwheels turned to car wheels through the town. She chipped in 25 cents for a 50 cent gallon of gas and rode up and down Hollywood Boulevard with carelessness in her rearview.

And then she grew old. And then she grew older. She moved from the city to the suburbs. In a quaint house on a quiet col de sac, she drags red liner across her brow bone and dusts her cheeks with rose. Her hair is the color of bricks and between salon visits, it fades to a subtle orange. Sitting in the den, she slides her grandchildren a few bucks so they can get ice cream from the singing truck. Coupons, clippings, and prescription drugs litter her table. Her husband groans about his back pain and cracks a joke about his fading youth. He watched himself grow old. He watches his children grow older. They watch theirs slowly do the same. Childhood bedrooms become guest rooms and storage closets, rooms for the grandchildren to play. They write their names in chalk on the driveway and run through sprinklers in the yard. Grandma buys them presents, gives them candy and kisses.

But soon, sidewalk chalk fades and lines no longer need to be drawn on doorposts. Art projects turn essays and hair bows turn heart-break. Her children pack her grandchildren for college, my grandmother trails behind the loaded car.

She’s Mimmi and she's Mom. But once, a long time ago, with a dime, a chocolate pop, and the road ahead, she was Marilyn.