Bright mid-summer morning
I walked, she skipped, holding hands.
She giggled at all she saw-full of life/joy
A small grouping of dew-covered Buttercups,
She jumped up and down with glee.
A long ago memory caught my heart for her.
With absent pleasure, placing it under her chin,
“Do you like butter?’
“Now you do it.” I said.
She saw the yellow glow,
With eyes wide with wonder-yes!
“You do too, Grandpa!’
With tears, the memory, so sweet as to be unbearable,
flooded my soul with the loss.
“Look Dad, Mommy showed me! Do you like butter?”