Only a Moment

I remember sunburnt

skin and the smell

of water

warming in the

sun and everyone

laughing and how

loud it was,

and he, sometimes,

the loudest.

The food piled

high, Italian

pasta salad

and burgers

and hot dogs

and happiness–

full bellies,

full hearts.

And he

and your

dad playing

basketball

while we

dripped

wet then dry

on the front

stoop.

And then back

in the pool,

he ragging on

his sister

and she, wading

in the water

with her pug,

laughing and

even louder

than him.

And his mother

there,

a woman who

already knew

heartbreak in the man

she once loved,

your uncle,

your mother's brother,

the protector,

now gone so many years.

And seeing him again

in my mind's eye,

I see us, forever

as we were

and should be,

but aren't

anymore.

How when you're

young,

a memory is

only a moment,

one that will

never stop

burning

even

when

the people

who make

them

eventually

do.