It is not my place; it was his. I honor memory. Pretzels that distracted while pizza cooled are gone, churros now. The rest remains: lines where I held him ’til arms gave out, then put down to run on mischief-making legs; straw dispenser attacked with single-minded furor, scoring many before I bade him stop; soda fountain where I juggled food and lifted with still-weary arms, napkins and bills of change blowing away. Or left at table with pizza, pretzel, and sundae while I ran for sodas and crucial napkins, fearing ill would befall in the seconds out of sight. Next door they sell tires; he crawled through the donut holes, got stuck where I could not reach without rolling half a dozen from the rack, our hands black and smelling of vulcanized rubber. Memories. Reality stolen by time. The air is chill, the flavors not so rich. Why have I come. I regret the straw-scolding. I remember to cherish the fleeting now.
— Ron – 16 Feb 2006