My boys eat blueberries like candy.
I’d rather they eat blueberries than candy.

We buy them in large bags, freshly frozen,
and we pour them liberally,
summer’s bounty in a mid-winter bowl.

One child—
he who likes sameness and predictability—
asks for them daily.
For health and possibility and love,
I oblige.

As I thaw another handful under the cool flow of water,
I remember
the prick of bushes,
sweetness wafting on the air,
and a steep descent.

The heat, the sweat, the weight, the work—
All for a small pail of goodness
To be picked through and washed and savored.

I am suddenly aware of our family’s wealth
And our poverty.

Even as I rejoice over the goodness I hold
And the relative ease of such provision,
I mourn that my children are so disconnected from its Source.

I resolve to take them blueberry picking—
Once ice thaws and green returns to earth—
Just as my own mother once took me.

I understand now:
It wasn’t just for the blueberries.

3 thoughts on “On Blueberries

  1. Beautifully written. Yes, not just for the blueberries. May God help us all to savor the sweetness of family togetherness. Love you!

  2. Wow! Rachel, that is some of the best I’ve read. (I have some writing that I do but stays in a drawer.) Seriously, this is an exceptional piece. How are you going to follow yourself?!

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