Get Over It

My brother is turning 60 and our little sister flew up from Atlanta so that we could all celebrate together. And the party started last night with takeout, games, and a lot of laughter. 

One of the old family stories we revisited was when about the time Bill and I ate the neighbor's strawberries. When she discovered the larceny, my mother sent the two of us, just 4 and 2 years old, next door to apologize, but we never made it. A little while later she found us crying on the tiny hill that separated our yards, and so she personally marched us over to confess our theft. I'm not sure who was more uncomfortable at that moment: me and Bill or Mrs. Huddleston.

Every year during April my students write parodies of the classic William Carlos Williams poem This is Just to Say, and having read 30 or so over the last week, my response to the tale of the stolen fruit was such:

This is just to say
I have eaten
the strawberries
that were
in your garden

and which
you were probably
saving
for shortcake

Forgive me
they were delicious
so warm
and so sweet