Les fraises d'antan

Strawberries, we ate,
Big, fat juicy ones,
The liquid running down our fingers like communion wine
Sun-warmed and sticky
Only to be wiped away on the nearest patch of grass.
That spring was a pause
A comma in my life
A rising breath and hic-
cup
before the inevitable exhale of summer.

We sat in the park
by the ginko tree
- and I note here, for the sake of honesty,
that I do not know if it was ginko or sycamore or
any other everyday tree –
but it was there
and it sheltered us
for a time.
I remember it as ginko because I love the word,
The tart, gutteral taste of ginko rolling off of my tongue
And I choose to remember it thus.

How many of my memories are the same?