A Perfect Moment

It's a lovely May Sunday in Manhattan, and I'm walking up Central Park West, when I see a mother and her son – probably six – coming slowly towards me. The boy is eating a blue popsicle; as I watch, it falls off its stick and onto the ground. He looks down at the sullied blue ice, then up at his mother, as if uncertain how he should react.

At this point, I am directly alongside them. It is the only moment when I am close enough to overhear their conversation.

"There's always tomorrow," says the mother.

I swear to God.