Day 262

A year ago Refaat was picking strawberries.
I have a picture of him:  smiling,
wearing a red shirt, holding a tray
of strawberries so ripe you can taste them
from the photograph.  Did he take them
home?  Eat a few of them
in his car?  Share them
with his daughter, who would learn
weeks later that she was pregnant?
Save some for the younger ones,
for his wife, for a student
who would drop by later
to show him a poem?  An ordinary
day.  The sun so bright
it made the smell of strawberries
so intense the car would hold it
for hours.  Refaat driving, thinking
of poetry, of walking on the beach.
Summer.  Refaat alive.  His daughter,
his yet-to-be-born grandson,
who would live
not quite three months.  The field not
burned, abundant with strawberries.