I remember your first meal,
using your fragile fingers to construct a violent mess.
I remember your sixth birthday,
decorating a chocolate cake with frosting as pink as your favorite dress.
I remember your first date,
rambling about sharing the strawberry shortcake shake.
I remember when we bought you your first car,
driving home with a coffee covered carpet, Dad’s heart full of ache.
I remember when you turned twenty one,
celebrating and drinking all that alcohol.
I remember when your heart first broke,
diving into vanilla bean ice cream with sprinkles of tears and eating it all.
I remember your first apartment,
coming home to a fridge with empty space.
I remember your wedding,
toasting with champagne and a cake covered face.
I remember your daughter’s first meal,
moving on from the bottle when she could finally chew.
I remember my last meal,
spending it with you.