On Blueberries

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. Share30 Tweet PinShares 30