She turned her nose up at the berries
I had grown with my patience and toil.
They aren’t the same as the store-bought ones.
They are small, very small, and very red.
“But you love strawberries.
You eat them by the pint.”
“They don’t look right,” she refused,
Shaking her blonde head and scrunching her nose.
So I left the bowl on the counter,
A tangerine bowl filled with crimson fruit
Bright against the mottled brown stone.
I went outside to enjoy the shade of the porch and sip my wine.
Not to my surprise, my girl followed me out,
Bowl in hand and berries in her mouth,
Juice dribbling down her chin.
“I told you so.”