They tell me that my first word was strawberry.
Of course, it was more like sogabie, but a valient effort nonetheless.
Before mother, before father, it was a fruit.
They read to me about a badger whose favorite food is bread and jam.
It is called Bread and Jam for Frances.
I do not know what her favorite jam is, but I imagine that it is strawberry.
I begin to pretend that I am a badger.
They tell me that once, after dinner, I jumped up and down for my dessert, proclaiming sogabie ice! sogabie ice! until my bemused parents handed me a strawberry popsicle.
I seem to remember that they told me once, after my parents went grocery shopping, I sneaked into the kitchen at night and ate an entire box of strawberries, without sharing.
I vaguely remember this as one of my crowning achievements.
My father tells me that his aunt was violently allergic to strawberries.
I can imagine no worse fate.
The saddest thing I have ever seen in a strawberry covered in mold.
The second saddest thing is an empty jam jar.
At parties, when they have strawberries, my mother has to remind me: strawberries are for everyone. She knows I disagree. I am chastised in the taxi home for being greedy. I pretend to be sorry. I am not sorry.
I am a badger.
When I get home, I take a piece of sourdough and slather it in strawberry jam.
© 2016 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.