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.