Shushi

At six years old, I’d say “shushi” with pride,
A slip of the tongue my mother let slide.
She’d smile and laugh, found it too cute to mend,

So “shushi” it stayed, a word without end.

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In eighth grade, I dressed my best for the night,

A date with a girl who made my heart light.

We dined on sushi, my nerves held in check,

Until I said “shushi,” and watched her reflect.

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She smiled at first, but then it grew cold,
A simple mistake, too young to be bold.
I’d tried so hard, planned every move,
But “shushi” it was that I couldn’t improve.

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Thirteen-year-old me, with a heart in two,

Wondered why “shushi” meant love was untrue.

I’d done everything right, but still came up short,

The word that I loved was now her retort.

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Years later, at eighteen, I gave her a call,
Told my mom I’d quit meat, no more at all.
She listened and chuckled, then gently sighed,
“At least you won’t have to say ‘shushi’ with pride.”

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Now I smile at the memory, once heavy with woe,

“Shushi,” a word that only she’d know.
What once brought me shame, I now hold dear,
A small twist of fate that grows sweeter each year.