I pluck a ripe strawberry
from Oma’s garden.
My small hands sticky,
my mouth ready,
juice running down my fingers.
I eat them
as fast as I can pick—
each one
an explosion:
sweet, tart, sticky,
summer on my tongue,
warm sun on my shoulders,
baby soft grass under bare feet.
This treasured garden,
these childhood summers in Germany,
my little oasis,
my garden of Eden—
their sweetness pure,
without rules,
without religion,
with authority figures,
without anyone telling me what to do,
or who to be.
I’m just present
fully present
embodied
in the sheer bliss
of eating Oma’s perfect strawberries
I still dream of those strawberries,
years later,
searching stores, gardens—
but nothing comes close.
Maybe because without Oma,
watering them gently,
her hands full of love only grandmothers know,
strawberries are just strawberries…
The taste of strawberries
and her love
linger in my mouth,
linger in my heart.
I try
to bite into the memory again and again—
sticky, sweet,
but it slips through my fingers,
drifting like summer’s fading echo,
vanishing between my palms,
ungraspable,
beautiful, and gone.