Winterberries

Here I am squatted by your grave, if you had one, I think this is where it would be. Tucked away from society, deep in the thick of tall pines and luscious green grass, with dancing wildflowers. Oh yes, this is definitely your space.

I think you brought me back here once when I was little, for I remember the sweetness of the honeysuckle vine crawling across the old busted wooden fence. We knelt low to inhale their fragrance as the sun beamed on our heads. Such a sweet memory I had with you.

Today, the winter air is turning warm and there’s little evidence of snow left on the earth floor. Saturated overgrown blades of grass droop like long locks of of wet Odon noodles, and I think I see a handful of winterberries that hid out of view of winter’s deer.

You and I used to eat them on our long walks in the woods. First pinching their deep red skin to reveal the wintery white soft flesh, before popping them on our tongues and flattening them on roof of our mouth. The instant chill of mint would encompass all the senses.

Later, I would wondered if we should have washed them before eating, because I wasn’t so sure if an animal had peed on them or not.

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