I was born on this day twenty-four years ago, in the heat of summer, new like a strawberry. Washed by the sun, my soul wanders in the journey clean as the white whipped cream that one licks off sticky fingers that ended up too tantalized to refuse a covert bite. Sweetness sinks into my bones as I note how pleasant, how effortless love can be when it is selfless and without harshness. It grows in the sun, nourished by the vine, plump and juicy by the ripening time. I wish I were as perfect as the strawberry that I roll over my tongue. If only words of compassion would continually spring forth from my lips as easily as the tart flooding of my senses. The season is winding down and the days will become shorter. August will be only a memory by then. I want to be as refreshing to my fellow travelers as the strawberry cake was that carefree day.