Mulberry Tree

Mulberry Tree

Sometimes,

when I’m staring off into the distance,

I think about the mulberry tree.

It was never ours, but I ate off of it,

and I remember how sweet it was

and how the dark purple juice dripped down my face

when I finished eating my share.

It was in a small parking lot.

I’m not sure what it was for.

All I remember is that it was hanging over

a tall wooden fence.

My mom would open the roof of the car,

and my dad would hoist me up,

steadying me as I feasted.

I remember the last time I saw it.

It was possibly the day we moved out of New Jersey.

That day, it was raining hard.

I remember sitting on top of my mom’s car,

somewhat wet, although my dad 

had an umbrella over my head.

And I feasted on mulberries for the last time.

My memory is still hazy.

Since that happened eleven years ago.

But I still remember the juice dripping down my face,

and I remember that it tasted heavenly, although

I didn’t know we were moving away for good.

But I fed mulberries to my brother, too.

On top of the roof of my mom’s car.