'Twas choc'late flavored pudding,
cans of juice in concentrate.
'Twas milk, I needn't to keep cold
or e'en refrigerate.

'Twas cereal and cups of pears
in single serving size.
The bounty was abundant
and so quick to appetize.

The fare was all pre-packaged,
ready anytime for use.
A spoon was all I need provide,
except for that canned juice.

I needed a container which
to pour it all into.
I still don't have a pitcher.
Once again, it's de ja vous.

I vowed to get a pitcher
and I've got one, fin-a-lly!
But when I stirred those cans of juice,
it stirred my mem-o-ry.

On weekends, which you'd spend with me,
you gave me one small task:
"Could there, please just be juice to drink."
That's all that you did ask.

Then on those visits, even though,
that small request'd been made,
you'd find the homework wasn't done.
I'd get a failing grade.

You soon gave up entrusting me.
I constantly forgot!
So, you included frozen juice
with luggage which you brought.

This should have solved the problem.
Now the drink could just be fixed.
With water in a pitcher,
all the contents could be mixed!

The water, I provided, yes.
On that, you could depend.
I didn't have a pitcher, though,
in which to make this blend.

So, once again, your simple wants,
an obstacle, did meet.
And debits kept on mounting up
upon my balance sheet!

But you took matters in your hands.
No need to be deterred.
You, next time, brought the pitcher, too
and ne'er complained, a word.

So, juice could now be served to you
whenever you did thirst,
as long as you supplied the means
required for it, first.

Accommodations given you,
were triple-A! First Class!
'Twas plenty of cold water
and you got to choose your glass!

That glassware...what variety!
...your preference: Large or Small!
Although to find a clean one
you'd just need to wash them all!

But fin-a-lly, the plan was set
and likely to succeed,
as long as doing all, yourself
were terms t'which you agreed.

So, you'd bring frozen juice
and to my freezer, 'twas assigned.
But when you ceased your visiting,
one can was left behind.
When packing for my recent move,
it seemed quite apropos
to give a ton of stuff away;
'twas time to let it go.

I bid farewell to bags of clothes;
aurevoir! many a book.
And though I left a lot behind,
that can of juice, I took.

You brought that juice of concentrate
so long ago, it seems.
It sits here, like a monument;
a frozen can of dreams.

It's something real from times, long past;
a bridge that I can hold.
Though, frosty, like a glacier,
it, to me does not seem cold.

Why don't I then prepare it
in the pitcher, I now own?
It serves as a reminder
that one reaps what one has sown.

Could circumstances show themselves
and reason then be found,
for opening that frozen tomb,
disturbing hallowed ground?