Sweetness that melts

There’s a quiet beauty 
in the things you know won’t last,  
moments already fading  
even while you’re inside them. 

Like a perfect cheeseburger 
and a good New York Knicks team on the TV, 
sitting beside your dad on the couch, 
both of you pretending the season might finally mean something, 
laughing at the same missed shots 
and talking during commercials 
about everything and nothing. 

Or a melting ice cream cone 
on a burning summer afternoon, 
sticky sweetness running down your hands 
while you stand beside your nana 
who wipes your fingers with a napkin 
and tells you to slow down 
even though the sun is already winning. 

Or the wild splash of cannonballs 
into a hotel pool on vacation,  
your cousins shouting, 
water flying everywhere, 
the future still wide open then, 
before time and distance 
quietly turned all of you 
into strangers. 

Or that last awkward conversation 
with your great-grandmother 
the one where you didn’t know what to say, 
where the room felt too quiet 
and her voice too fragile, 
and you thought there would be 
another visit, 
another story, 
another chance to listen. 

There’s beauty in those moments 
because they are already leaving. 

Because the burger gets eaten, 
the ice cream melts, 
the pool empties, 
the game ends, 
the voices fade into memory. 

And only later do you realize 
the real sweetness of it all 

that you were there 
while it was happening, 
holding something brief and ordinary 
that time would never give back.