(A Sunday Morning Story)

I walked up the long black cement road that wound around Highland Hill like a concrete river. I had just come from running, the first attempt since my knee injury; I had been curious for motion, but I wasn’t an idiot, pushing past patience’s pace, so I only ran the flat parts, leaving downhill to be walked. When it was level, I made sure to run with more of a squat-glide than a proper high-impact run. I would curl my tailbone under, shifting my pelvis forward, sinking low into my thighs, and hinge from my waist to allow for a pivoting in my mid-section, avoiding the up and down, up and down.

The sun was beginning to thicken the air with heat, which radiated off the concrete. I was tired. As I rounded the last corner, my temple beginning to pound, I saw the blackberry bushes I had noticed on the run out. There hadn’t been many left – the birds had nearly picked the bush clean – but I did notice a few small berry-heads poke out from disclosing leaves. Sweet dessert!

I plucked the four I was able to find in the long minutes of searching. Be satisfied with four, I whispered, nodded, and prepared myself to enjoy the fruits of my labor…

The first one was tart, near to bitter, and I cringed on first taste. The next one was a bit better, slightly sweeter, and the third was tart again, un-enjoyable nearly. I saved the last, noting it was much plumper than the previous three, and that it must be the sweet relief I was waiting for. I looked at it to marvel at the girth — what a berry! – to take it in, enjoy the process, ritualize the experience. Holding it up to the light, I noticed a small white speck, which began to move. Watching longer, I realized the glorious berry was swarming with those white specks, like television static. Mites. I decided even in my adventurous spirit I’d hold off on the mite eating, would wait until I could rinse it off. I wondered if the tart ones had had mites and I just hadn’t noticed, or maybe the pale ivory bugs knew to only congregate on the sweet ones – the best ones.

I walked further on, promising this berry would be worth the wait, and worth the wash. Then, as quickly as I stumbled into a pothole just off the road and let loose a yelp as I swiped my leg against a reaching berry vine, my eyes met a cluster of glory-berries; the berries were as fat, if not fatter, than the one I held so preciously. Jackpot.

Ha, I winced, my pain is worth it, lest I never discover this abundance the birds seem to have missed. I picked and I picked. Two hands full, some were so ripe they fell apart in my soft two-fingered grasp. Every berry I picked swarmed with mites but I didn’t care because I knew, oh I knew, the sweet reward that awaited my patience at the end of Lau Lane – knew the heaven that would adorn my bran cereal. Perfection. The sun beat down and I was dripping with sweat. My hands were sticky and wet. I was feverish with triumph.

This is not a metaphor for life. This is a story about berry picking.