Cardamom.

There once was a time

I screamed for three hours about tricolor macaroni

all because it had not announced itself

as the same old noodle

in a different dress.

I refused to eat it as a child.

Now I buy it regularly.

There once was a time

I swore I’d never like tomatoes,

with their deceptively strong skin

and burst of acidic flavor

hidden inside.

Now I grow them every year—

so many that squirrels and chipmunks

make my trellises lean under their weight,

trying to steal them.

There once was a time

I promised there’d never be a day

I would eat an onion.

I’d pick them out,

doom them to the side of my dish.

Now I cut them and cook them

into several meals,

just for the flavor.

And lastly,

there once was a time

I swore up and down

there would never be a day,

never be a planet we could inhabit,

in which you and I could ever be.

Yet here we are,

and I am the one devastated.

I guess it just took me too long

to come around

to the flavor of you.