Joe’s namesake, my grandpa Joe, ate a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream basically every night of his life, up until his death. Even in the throes of Alzheimer’s he knew he needed his ice cream, even when he did not know where or when he was, and now hundreds of miles away and days later, his great Grandson and namesake lives by it, it’s his love language and bargaining tool and happy thought, happy place and safe space, as if he’s speaking through him, it’s melted under his nails and all over his play table, his ice cream truck is his favorite toy. I wrote a play once with an old man named Joe, also after my Grandpa, whose wife Roberta goes to heaven and finds that it’s an ice cream shop. It’s all so wonderful. She can’t decide so she orders Neapolitan, so she can try a bit of Everything.