Dear Blueberry

Dear Blueberry,

My beautiful summer berry, it's been so long since I saw you. But last week rumors were flying--rumors that you had arrived, ready to receive visitors. Great preparations were made: lunches packed, car gassed, sunscreen liberally applied. And though the journey to you is long, I have learned to be patient. You are so very worth the wait.

I must comment on your somewhat patriotic decision to arrive around the 4th of July. But this makes sense when one considers how American you are. A native to our land, you love to travel from Canada to Florida--though you seem to have a thing for Maine--gifting us with antioxidants and vitamins. Your tiny, perfect spheres strive to rid the world of cancer whilst gushing warm from muffins and draping syrup over pancakes. Could we ask any more of a berry? Of a food? No wonder Native Americans loved you so. They picked you, dried you, and rubbed you into meat. Did you know the Hopi Indians called you moqui, spirit of their ancestors? Oh powerful Blueberry, I can only thank them again and again for sharing you with early Colonists and eventually the world.

Imagine if they had kept you all to themselves? I shudder to think of a world without you. A world barren of blueberry pancakes, blueberry jam, ice cream or Blueberry Betty? No blueberry-chipolte bbq ribs? No cobbler? No blueberry sprinkled salad...or, and I shudder at the very thought, no blueberry pie?

While we have spent many a summer day together, this year I am compelled to remark on your blossoms: perfect, itty-bitty, reddish-pink stars. Each one promising a fat, juicy berry--how could I have overlooked them before? Truly Blueberry, you are a love whose beauty unfolds gently, layer upon layer.

And so, reflecting on our quiet morning together in Cedar Grove, I find myself grateful for the cooling clouds, and a grove free of crowds. But I must also beg your forgiveness for those few, well, frantic moments early in our visit. It was the excitement over those plump berries that drove me deep within you--reaching, clawing, digging towards a jackpot of ripeness, just out of reach. Your sharp branches pushed me back, told me not to be greedy, to fill my buckets with reverence--plucking swiftly, but gently--as not to disturb green berries and tender leaves. I caressed your branches, coaxing deep blues to fall into my hands. And please know I was mindful of your many spider-neighbors...for surely they have more right to your branches and coves than I.

So I find myself, hours later, tired, lying in the grass, scratches on my skin, stains on my mouth. Blueberry, know this: even when you are gone, you are never far from my thoughts. Your endless green groves are frozen in my memory, your succulent berries are frozen in my freezer. There will be muffins in December, smoothies in February, and dreams of you all winter. Dreams of next Summer, same time, same place, when I know we will meet again.

P.S. Thanks for hanging around longer than Strawberry.