My father and I walk together
over the oak bridge
by our house, watching
the blooming tulips
and swaying branches
and leaves
that carry the scent of blueberry bread
from the loaves my mother bakes for us
in the oven.

The wind rustles through the willow,
and my father asks
if I still remember how to fashion
the grass stalks
into baskets to carry loaves
of blueberry bread
to the neighbors.

The baskets I made myself
would always crumble from the weight,
but my father always found
the strongest stalks
and wove them through my baskets’ weaves
when I wasn’t watching.

At the end of the bridge,
the water lapping against the willow trees,
he beckons
to a tiny grove of grass
by the river.

I look at my father,
at the grass,
at my father again,
and then, kneeling,
I begin to weave.
First one stalk, then another, and another,
until my mother brings a tray
of steaming blueberry bread
and sets them, one by one,
into my basket.

I look at my father,
he nods,
and I lift my basket.

As the wind whistles through the weaves,
we finish our walk
at last.