South Texas sun on young legs
in early November
makes it difficult for ice cream to remember
to—keep—still.
Chocolate-vanilla swirl,
cold on his tongue,
working hard to keep it together.
Just having fun.
Cones in hand,
a grandmother,
a sister—
waiting for a key to enter.
On a porch, to step inside,
yet someone arrives.
An unknown car,
an unknown face.
Kind,
she parks to embrace.
The grandmother moves
pulling her aside,
for quiet words to hide.
Yet words briefly escape.
Did she say Mom had died?
Sharp-edged words,
too heavy for a six-year-old to swallow,
dulled by
dripping ice cream,
brushed away by
a gently, protective hand.
Postponing pain,
till tomorrow.
- william goynes