There is nothing quite like the smell of cheese as it goes through the process of becoming a cheddar or a gouda.
“Father, can we check the cheese?”
His little voice still echoes in the icehouse where I visit to complete the task he so longed to be a part of.
Big blue eyes and curly hair bob along in my mind’s eye – always watching, always waiting, and wondering when it will be his turn.
“It’s not time yet.”
I say this with a serious tone but let a bit of a chuckle creep in beneath my beard.
Every day, it is like this. An impatient question turned ritual – “Father, can we check the cheese?”
As always, I would have some reason, some excuse. Small boys quickly get underfoot in their attempts to help.
He will never ask again.
I should have let him check the cheese.
[This is the Third Place Winner from our Spring 2024 Poetry Contest.]