Mothers and Daughters: The Strawberry Smear

It may be hard to remember 
through all the broken plate moments 
that your daughter once looked you in the eye,
that you were mermaids 
swimming in synchronicity 
in a clear blue ocean, 

that there was  a time when her ideas
 would sprawl out of her head 
all over the homework, 
a big bang onto to the white walls 
of her bedroom  in crayon equations, 
golden hens, rainbow fish and silly sentences.

“I had a dog named cat. 
Cat was a dog but he acts like a cat,” 
is the one you remember the most.

She was a difficult birth.  
She never latched on to you, 
throwing up the little 
she suckled from you and the bottle  
needing Comidagen for the first twelve months.      

Yet, when you went to the strawberry farm 
she gifted you the first one she plucked, 
running away with the sun’s smile 
dancing in her pigtails.    

You eventually caught her. 
Turned her around.  
Held her hands in yours. 
Never letting her go 
in the journey to the car.  
Even after the strawberry smear 
obscured your carefully created to-do-list.