Good name for a poem – if only I had the eloquence. Regardless, today I had the privilege of going berry picking with my mom. Privilege I say because she’s 89 years old and not everyone is so lucky.
Actually it was her idea. Or at least she reminded me that the blackberries were ripening and we should get them before the sun scorched them dry. And she remembered they were plentiful not far from my house.
So we went and found them in abundance on both sides of the road – a quiet road with no traffic along a right-of-way.
They were beautiful. In varying stages of readiness but many plump and juicy, ripe for picking.
“Look mom,” I said pointing to our bowls mostly full. “We picked the same amount.”
“I have more,” she said with a twinkle in her eye – because that’s my mom.
I took her back home and before she made it to her apartment she’d given some berries away. To the person at the front desk. To the person on the elevator.
Because again – that’s my mom.
The berries are still ripening so we’ll go back for more.
In the meantime we’ll be eating berries. Freezing berries. And making blackberry cobbler.
Lucky for both of us.