For starters, we’ll have freshly
sliced tomatoes, picked straight
from the vines in the greenhouse,
that homegrown smell lingering on
their skin. We’ll mix them with
basil and oil, a hint of garlic
on lightly toasted bread.

For mains, we’ll have it outside,
under the parasol, a warm summer,
our feet bare, towels wrapped around
our shoulders, as we eat piping hot
lasagne, garlic butter dripping down
our fingers and the adults talking.

Pudding will be bowls of the freshest
strawberries, laced with sugar,
dolloped with cream, which we’ll inhale
as if it’s barely there. Then we’ll disperse
from the table, our bellies full, our hunger
satisfied, longing to get on and play.

Later, perhaps, in years to come,
we’ll wish that we lingered a little longer.
But then, perhaps, the best memories
are the ones that it’s hard to see.