After work, we sit on the yellow couch,
crayon-tracked now and covered in shoe schmutz,
to share the strawberries I bought as soon as we got off the train
and sprinkled with real sugar.
I let my son lance the side of a giant
heart-shaped berry and watch as he pulls its elusive veins
with jagged milk teeth, trusting each time
the fruit won’t escape into the polished
I remember sharing strawberries with my father who always took
the big ones drenched in sugar before pointing with his chin
at the smaller ones for me to take.
In all the years I shared with my father
I never imagined
the smaller ones were easier.