We no longer keep silences the way we used to
folded into strawberry turnovers
the way your mother used to do

always careful not to spill
the kept red fruit

Now on Sundays driving to your father's
the turnovers you made travel
with us warm and wrapped

in red check cloth
inside a wicker basket

crossing the bridge
from our rented apartment
to the table in his nursing home

where with shaking hands your father
holds the pastry spilling the strawberry