In the long sweep of time, we are a blink and gone. We will be dead soon; this is the only thing we know for sure. We don't know what that house of darkness may be, but it won't be THIS. This glimmering, shifting, ever-changing play of the senses. This blaze of light, tilt of shadow, seduction of texture. It won’t be these golden reflections in snow-melt. It won’t be touch, the different ways a lover’s hand cradles chin-bone, thigh, nipple. The heft of an infant, helpless, her downy head, the fontanel pulsing. Touch, the language it speaks, the way it communicates what words cannot. The insistent press against the legs of an adoring dog. Embrace of fur, fragrance of leather laces in new shoes, melting slide of créme brulée down the throat. Mist in the mouth of a dark cherry. Taste. It won’t be this. We take it while we still can.