Berries in Buffalo

It is the one memory that sticks.

The hour-plus drive to Grandmother's house,

in a whale-sized Chevrolet, with

Dad as the captain, Mom the first mate.

I could barely jump out fast enough

once we got there,

when the raspberries were in season,

lining Grandmother's driveway

like a red carpet

for such non-royalty as me,

little carrot-topped scalawag

with greedy fingers and eager lips.

And here, my mouth ruled,

its singular purpose

the banquet of berries

while inside the others settled for

leftover turkey sandwiches on white bread.

On one side, a rough gravel driveway

where I might have scraped my knees

trying out my first bicycle

if I were so inclined; and on the other,

a scene from a Disney movie,

a boy ruby-rich with berries

and unedited with joy.

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