One day you’re 10, and you’re waking up to the wet wilderness, putting on your dirt streaked flip flops to pick wild raspberries for morning pancakes. The foam soles bend around the gravel road, and you can feel every single pebble like the princess and the pea except you’re the king, the king of this very second. You let the silence hang, tight around your jaw, because even you know not to break the quiet of raspberry pancake mornings.
And then one day you’re 25, and you don’t remember the last time you sunk your feet into grass, soil; and I mean nature’s grass and soil, not some city slicked park with cobblestone paths and pre-planted flowers and stiff lawn grass. You don’t remember the last time you truly let a silence cling to itself, because now they’re “uncomfortable” and adults are committed to tampering them with pseudo-niceties. You don’t remember the last time you had a morning red with raspberries and not red from tension, from yesterday’s unresolved woes.
You don’t remember the last time you felt like a king, a god.
Who feeds the adult raspberries?
Lashanda Forsberg 