Raspberries

Encircling this small town is a well traversed and poorly maintained sidewalk. The trees are allowed to take over, their roots pressing the panels of concrete up like lids to slow moving jack-in-the-boxes. Occasionally, attempts will be made to manage these roots, but there will always be other trees that need to push in order to grow. Paths and streets connect to the sidewalk, running in and out of city like oxygen-seeking capillaries. Along this sidewalk there is a thicket of raspberries, possessing the deepest red fruits buried amongst tiny chlorophyl needles.

There are some people who manage to pass by the bushes every day, completely unaware of the crimson fruit. Some have never taken time to consider their saccharine taste. There are those who glance at the berries every day, but choose to abstain. They turn away for fear of scratches, they wait hoping to find a perfect berry- or at least a berry that is easy to reach.

That one berry could be the best berry on the bush. It could have been prematurely picked, rotten, half eaten by insects, or dehydrated by the summer sun. Those lips do not know the difference, but their perception of raspberries will be based off of that one.

There are those who take time, cautiously plucking the berries at the outer-branches, hoping to find the sweetest fruits whilst getting the fewest scratches. They compare their handful of berries to one another, tend to the occasional scratch, maybe show off the scar.

Then, there are the divers, those of us who pay no mind to the abrasions, for we only wish to taste the sweetness of the fruit. The stinging is overpowered by the red juice on our lips. We know the varying tastes, the affects of sunlight, and occasionally the bitterness of rot.

All those that pass by the thicket have to interact with each other at some point in time, and they all deal with their consumption in some way. Perhaps we would never know that there was anything different or wrong with our approach, had it not been for our interactions with one another.

Why are your lips so red?
What have you done to your arms?
You’ve devalued the berry by being so glutinous!
How can you be so courageous to suffer those cuts?
Do they all taste the same?
Did theirs taste better?
At least I never suffered a stomach ache.
Should I be ashamed of the scars on my skin and hide the marks?
Were those savory moments worth the pricking?
It’s hard to see these cuts in the winter, when there are no more berries to be had.
Why must the bushes have thorns?
-Because the scratches are only as deep as you make them.