You told me once
that your momma had a dream
of her daddy eating
berries
in childish abandon
after the cancer had
taken him home.
We were laughing
the other night, after
our boy had gone
to bed – about how
he stuffs the blueberries
into his mouth
by the twos and threes.
“Reminds me of
mom’s dream,
and makes me smile”
you said.
Sweet
how dreams
can drift
into memories,
the stain of eaten
fruit, on the chin of
a baby,
a remnant
of something else.