"FRESH BLUEBERRIES, PICK YOUR OWN,"
it said boldly, blue letters on a clean white square.
i smiled, as i thought about how charming it would all be ,
picking blueberries on some sunny spring day, popping a few into my mouth, every now and again.
then i wondered,
what would happen if i told some woman,
from a hundred years ago, or even a thousand , it doesn't really matter,
about that sign,
"pick your own!" she would sigh and shout,
throwing her sturdy arms into the air,
"my whole life, i've been pickin' my own!
and cleanin' my own, and cookin' my own,
and his own, and their own! pick my own.
of all the...."
...and her voice would trail off as she thundered into the other room,
to do some thing that needed doing.
i think she would jump at the chance
to walk alone, into some fluorescent lit supermarket,
and feel the cool manufactured air breeze over her summer-stained skin,
and pick out the first, square, plastic quart of berries she saw,
throwing it in the cart, on top of the box of kix cereal,
and the boneless skinless chicken breasts.
she would remember the days she spent, up with the sun, and out in it,
knees pushing against the hot ancient earth, as she knelt down,
filling the apron that she starched herself, watching the scarlet blue blood,
staining the perfect white,
pausing, as she used the back of or her arm to wipe the sweat from her wrinkled brow.
"pick your own." she would mutter and shake her head,
throwing in an extra plastic quart,
just for good measure.
Image Credit: Google Images