photo courtesy of theresa bodi yaroshevich
the raspberries are finished now. but it was only a few weeks ago that they sat sun warmed and ripe in their prickly little maze. my fingers cracked and stained with the juice. scratches on my arms. the warm explosion of sweet in my mouth. my lips stained a little deeper red. and it was only a few weeks ago. now the stores have little plastic boxes of berries. but no allure. they still have a small taste of summer, not like the berries we find in winter that taste of dust and refrigerators. but raspberries that have been gathered in an afternoon, that there are war wounds from the gathering, are still the perfect temperature and sweetness and juiciness. and the moment can sit in me for months, years even. the sun on my neck, the brambles scratching bare legs, and the taste of one single berry is the essence of an afternoon well spent.
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