A favorite poem (about a favorite thing).
Kilwin's
There's a candy store on Main Street
in the small mountain town
where we took a last-minute vacation
one long-ago summer
when you were little—
and then continued to visit
every summer since,
finally buying the house on the lake
we had fallen in love with
while making memories there
year after year.
The store is a chain, a franchise,
but when one opened up in our hometown
a few years back,
I decided to pretend it didn't exist
because Kilwin's was our special place there.
It should not be here.
We would go, you and I,
and order scoops of ice cream.
You loved Chocolate,
especially if there were marshmallows on top.
I loved Toasted Coconut
or Perfect Apple Pie.
And the last quart you chose
was Marshmallow S'more.
It was still in the freezer
of our house up there
when you died,
waiting for you to finish
what was left of it.
So I did, thinking of you
with every cold spoonful,
trying to fill my empty self up.