Strawberries.

I stand in my father's garden
Knee-deep in carrots and tomato plants.
Garish rhubarb sneaks a playful swipe at my shin.
I wade through the tall grass and pinch my favorite leaf
Of lemon balm by the door.
I breathe in the quiet musty earth of my childhood.
"Was I a good parent?" he had asked, words that echo here in my ears as I part the leaves of a strawberry plant to hunt for forgotten fruit.
"Am I a good person?" my reply mixes in between the lines.
I remember weekends building
Summers spent and earned in learning
Evenings I felt loved.
Our house was always warm and full of laughter
I learned the things a father ought to teach his daughter:
How to change a tire, build stairs, dance the moonwalk.
How to help a stranger.
How to do your best.
Memories condense on the maple leaves next to me here,
As I find a tiny tart berry that the slugs have spared.
It tastes like home.