Raspberries

A sticky drip of raspberry Popsicle slips down my pinky before I can take the first bite. The world above careens by. The frozen fruits are organic and 100% raspberry according to the label and the friend who recommended them to me. Like eating off the twig, she says. I suck the syrup off my finger and snap off a good portion of the bar between my teeth.

I’m eight years old and crouched at the top of the hill in J B's backyard. I’m stooped below the hedge of their raspberry bushes, one hand holding a woven wooden basket against my hip, the other led by its red-tipped fingers into the bushes. I’ve become skilled at picking raspberries because I’ve never turned down an offer to harvest from the B's—pick 10, eat one; pick 10 more, eat 2; pick 5 when no one is watching and eat until you’re full. I hold the berry between my forefinger and thumb, twist with a murderer’s precision, check the cavity once for bugs and pop it into my mouth, still warm from mid-summer sun.

Tastes like heaven.