Two days ago, we crouched in an open field plucking ripe
strawberries from bushes standing half my daughter’s height.
Berries smaller than her palm, the roof of her mouth. This is how
things are supposed to be: unbloated, organic, taken in one by one.

Today, with the rain, I’ve forgotten what season it is. I arrive
at home with one lean hour to spare before I get the baby.
My grandmother is dying in the hospital: blood clots 
in her lungs, organs conspiring to fail. Next week, in the church, 

I will weep to an ancient chant bidding her a long and peaceful 
rest. For now, at home, my husband and I are quiet. I admire
our silence. I admire the churn of our dishwasher, the hum 
of electricity whirring off the dated chandelier. This empty hour

dwindles to thirty minutes. Fifteen. Soon, I will fold
my daughter’s solid weight into my chest. I will feed her dinner,
put her to bed. Drive one town over to see a woman I have known
my whole life, one last time. My shyness will keep me

from touching her petal-frail skin ‘til she’s very nearly gone.
And then, I will hold her hand. The sky is dark
for a June afternoon. Inappropriately overcast.
For ten more minutes, nothing to do but wait for the downpour

to simmer. I pocket my breath in my heart ‘til we can pick
strawberries again. Summer will return; I will guide my daughter 
onto a sun-scorched hill and we will spend the morning
snatching all the ripest berries from their branches.