Brussels Sprouts

I don’t remember
When I started eating Brussels sprouts,
But what I do remember
Is the person
Who introduced them to me.
When I eat Brussels sprouts,
I go back to a time
When I was just a sprout myself,
Sitting in the farmhouse kitchen
With my grandfather,
His bowl much larger than mine,
Smiling at me,
And telling me in his booming voice
That these are good for me.
My grandmother, brother, and cousin
Are yelling at the wrestling match
On the TV,
And Grandpa and I
Are eating the sweet leafy treats
And soaking up the hot melted butter
With bread,
Just having our moment
With the thing that only the two of us
Have in common;
Our love for Brussels sprouts.
Losing my grandfather
Was difficult
Even at such a young age.
All I wanted to eat
Was Brussels sprouts,
But my dad stopped
Buying them for me,
And I started to lose
The one solid memory of Grandpa.
So I refused to eat them
For many years
Until one day,
I saw them,
I bought them,
I cooked them,
I ate them with bread,
And I cried;
Half grief,
Half happiness.
I missed the moment.
I rejoiced the memory.

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