My heart is safe in the quiet moments,
when my memory swells with the sweet fruit
of remembered triumphs, not even my own.
The first day my son climbed a tree,
he looked up and laughed at the sky.
Another day, I found a love note in my sock drawer,
penned by my tiny second boy, “i luv yuo Moma!”
When my knees failed to do as I pleased,
my daughter offered me a hug, complete
with damp kisses scented with hot chocolate.
After a surgery, lost in circles of pain,
my growing-up boys made a week of dinners,
fragrant salads awash in salmon and spices.
Before my daughter leaves for school, she tells me,
“I’ll hold you in my heart all day, and I’ll always love you.”
My aunt finds four-leafed clovers every spring,
and I find love hidden in the smallest thing.
My heart is full of wild strawberry sweetness,
a mashed jam of moments like these.
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