It starts so early, this putting down of the girls.

Father of young girl with blonde locks tumbling

walks past and our brief exchange

circles around cherries:

This one doesn’t like them, he says,

She’s the picky one.

A. Who cares, this like/dislike

B. How about an understanding heart, pal?

But, no, gotta put ’em down.

Old, old story–nothing to do with blessed cherries.

I shrug–

That’s okay, nobody has to like ’em, I say–

for her,

to him.

I’ve been that girl in the family’s eyes

my whole life long.

Let them have their judgments for company.

Keep walkin’, little sister.