blueberry pancake morning. my mom ground the flour. she picked the berries, too.
we go blueberry picking every summer, and every summer, without fail, my mom turns into a blueberry picking-machine. “is that all you’ve done?” she asks with a smile, looking at my halfway-full bucket. she’s already filled two, shrugging in a way that says, “no big deal.”
next summer i’ll be better, mom. and i won’t cry about the bees. even though they really do scare the shit out of me.
Posted August 7, 2010 at 12:35pm
