The first strawberry

We opened the balcony door,
To water two buckets with potatoes that grew half a meter high,
Two rows of strawberries,
An avocado (that lost its last leaf a few weeks ago),
And a few plants that I can’t remember what are they called.

M was pouring water into the first bucket.
Keeping a constant eye on the potato plant,
She turned the soil – into a puddle,
And then moved to the strawberries that were peeking from the wooden box.

Not much water was left in her green watering can,
So, most of the fragile plants
What was intended to be,
A heavy water splash.

At the edge of the box,
A small red bud was staring at us.

We held the stem and helped M to pick her first berry on our balcony.

M and the strawberry in the kitchen –
I washed it under cold water,
Removed ‘the green part that shouldn’t be eaten’
And gave the red part back to M –
Who was all that time,
Observing the process,
With the utmost patience.

Then she took the strawberry, smelled it and put it in her mouth.
Was it good, I asked?
She nodded her head while the strawberry was disappearing.

There will be plenty where this one came from.
But none of them will be the first.
The first is gone,
In the moment that will stay,
Safely stored in the memories of our past.

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