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.