Her Last Bite

 The last time I spoke to my mom, she asked for something sweet.

I remember it so clearly now, though at the time I didn’t think much of it.

An ice cream sandwich.

I handed it to her, and we didn’t say much.

Maybe we didn’t need to.

I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d see her awake,

but somewhere, in the back of my mind, I think I felt it.

There was a heaviness in the room, an unspoken awareness

that time was slipping away.

I watched her take slow bites, the vanilla softening at the edges,

her hands wrapped around it in a paper towel.

She always kept tissues and paper towels in her pockets.

When she finished, I wrapped up the rest,

put it in a Ziploc bag, and tucked it in the freezer for later.

But I couldn’t throw it away.

It felt like tossing out the last moment we shared,

like cutting the final thread that connected us.

For years, I kept it,

a frozen reminder of when she was still here.

It wasn’t just a sandwich anymore—it was a memory.

The last bite of a life I wasn’t ready to let go of.

Every time I opened the freezer, I saw it—

that half-eaten piece of her, waiting, still preserved.

I knew it was silly. It wasn’t her.

But I couldn’t help it.

It felt like the one part of her I could keep,

the one part I could control,

the one thing that wouldn’t leave me.