Strawberries

Bruce is dying.
His head hangs,
his hands rest:
one on each knee.
He’s quiet,
expressionless,
beyond anything
I know
about the end.

He grips a small square of paper
that reads: Strawberries.
He asks my father
if he remembers
the strawberry cake
their mother used to buy
at the bakery.
Strawberries were big back then,
now they’re too small, he says,
placing fingers together
to show me.
Then he stares at me
and laughs
as if it’s the funniest thing.
Apropos to nothing,
he says:
Language was invented
by those who wished to deceive you.
I ask, Where did you read that,
Uncle Bruce?
He raises his eyebrow and says,
“I don’t know,”
and laughs all over again.