Fruit Trees Remind Me

As soon as I could write 

I remember writing poems 

In little notebooks that were cute and shown 

I would like the way they sound 

And the way they rhymed 

The way they looked 

Short and concise. 

And that I always knew what to say 

Because its just the way. 

They grew in my heart 

And when I had hurt to express

You best believe I could not write a better poem. 

I had stopped for some reasons

Mostly due to pain and suffering 

What had happened, happened in this specific period 

But this story isn’t about that 

In this year of tragedy 

That had been offered to my family 

And not just once, not just twice, but three times 

Like a charm gone upside down and up side wrong 

Two deaths that hit me hardest 

For reasons that do not resemble one another 

Little did I know 

The one death I could not remember 

would be the reason I’d lose my grandmother 

To me, seemingly two decades to early 

She didn’t want to die like her own mother 

My father would remind me not to judge his mother 

What I am to do but cry?

As I think back, I wish I had offered her a better goodbye 

Perhaps a poem about what it meant to me 

to be the apple of her eye. 

I can never look at a fruit tree 

Without remembering the smell of summer 

On the hill picking plums with her partner 

my father’s father 

He reminds me to pick the ones just eaten 

By the nature that surrounds us 

The sweetest is what is on the tree, enjoyed by someone before us 

I wish I could have written a poem about them 

But I was too young to remember 

Anything but what they both meant to me


I was all that mattered. 

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