Homes should have a dense square of raspberry bushes. Some say a grove is better, or a trellis, but those garden folk don’t have a clue. 
 

My grandfather had a cluster of berry chutes all clumped in one section of his yard, and each summer I would have to go and pick them before they rotted. And naturally, I dove right in. The biggest haul didn’t lie in the easily accessible outskirts of this cluster, it was the berries grown in the warmth of the core that were the sweetest. 
 

As such I would wade through thorns and scratchy leaves hellbent on protecting their fruits, plucking as I went, coating my lips in a red strangely indistinguishable from the scrapes accumulating on my arms as I slid each obtrusive tendril out of my way to pick the berry from its little mount on the stem. It always ached so bad, getting in the hot shower after with all those cuts all over me, but it was an ache worth bearing for the raspberries. 
 

It was even more satisfactory to be in the dead middle, and even when I grew tall, I still had to look up to see the sky in the thicket. The leaves and lofty stems created a lovely wreathe around the vivid blue above me. I’d nibble on a few in my tupperware and sit there for the longest time. 
 

Hard as I had struggled to get in, the raspberry bushes feel strangely safe. Like a cradle of knives, but they’re all pointing outwards. It’s soft, and scary, and gosh I couldn’t help but smear my hands with the juices of it. 

Once I was done with my revelry, the escapade of exiting was less thrilling, and it often involved fighting not to spill my haul as I contorted my way back into the yard, but it was fun nonetheless. I’d bring the tub inside, filled with pinky red jewels with their hollow middles and succulent facets, and I’d toss a few to the dogs. They always loved a treat. It stained their snouts pink, and we matched for a bit. 
 

After setting the tub on the table, my family would gather like fruit flies drawn to the scent and all would leave with their lips painted sweetly. It was a quiet moment.
 

I love you, I’d say with this harvest. Have a berry. Don’t mind that I got a little roughed up. Don’t mind that I’ve grown up. I love you. Have a berry.