When I was a child, I ate raspberries straight from the bush in the backyard of our small yellow house. I picked them from the plants before the birds could eat them. They were red, bumpy, and sweet.
Today, I counted the raspberries in the green plastic box and divided by three. Some for me, some for my daughter, and some for my grandson. Product of Mexico via California. They were rinsed, cold, and tangy.
When I’m gone—when this cancer finally takes me—I hope to be planted under a tree or buried in my grandchildren’s garden. Unburdened, growing, raspberried.