Stand at the sink.
Pull strawberry after strawberry from a green basket.
Cut them with a butter knife.
Whose hands are these?
The fingers look like your mothers.
One hand slowly pats the other.
Look out the window at the same empty street.
Sprinkle sugar. Stir berries in a bowl.
Get the scoop your mother owned.
It belongs in your hand.
Get out the ice cream with bits of vanilla bean in it.
Look at these sundae cups.
They were stored in the garage.
You like them. You never saw them before she died.
You stand in her kitchen
and wish you could ask where she got these.
These thick glass cups
must have belonged to your Grandmother.
They’re so goddamned beautiful they almost make you cry.
Summer strawberries make ice cream pink.
They taste terrific.
You eat them in front of the TV in the house you grew up in.
You sit together in the dark watching The Munsters.
Something funny happens and your mother starts to laugh.