Late Summer, Fireweed in Bloom
It happens again and again: the strawberry is almost ripe, and the next day when I go to pick it off the stem, it’s gone. The squirrels and birds who take them, I tell myself, are just as much a part of this world as I am, just as deserving of the sweetness. Still, the disappointment lingers.
It happens again and again: I decide to change my life. I will learn to play the violin. I will use the pair of ice skates that I found on the back shelf of the secondhand store. I will take my medication every week without forgetting. I will be a new person, a better person, a person who is stable and competent and never gives anyone any reason to dislike me. Then, I let the sink fill up with dishes, allow the laundry to pile up on the floor. The pint of raspberries starts molding in the back of the fridge.
It happens again and again: in August, the serviceberries go from soft green to bright red to deep blue. I pluck and eat one and, tasting it, I become a child again. I am roaming the woods near my grandmother’s house, filling my mouth with every ripe thing I can see. Somewhere deep inside me is a sadness I do not know how to name.
It happens again and again: I awaken from a dream, unsettled. The images themselves—flooding rivers, dripping highbush cranberries, fractured bones—these are not the point. What matters is the feeling: a separation from reality, an abstraction of consciousness into its component parts, the heavy scent of sweat slick on my brow.
It happens again and again: the answer comes in the form of a question. How many deaths does it take to start living? Why does every summer feel the same and different all at once? How many sun-warmed blackberries can I collect before the thorns finally prick me deep enough to dot my arms with blood? What did I think was going to happen?
It happens again and again: My therapist tells me to imagine my emotions as a series of objects—storm clouds, verdant oil paintings, hungry fish in ponds. Today, my anxiety takes the form of ten salmonberries cupping my fingertips like thimbles. She guides me through: observe without judgment, practice distance. I do not tell her when I squeeze my fists and berry-juice starts dripping down my arms. I do not tell her how good it feels, if only in imagination, to destroy this part of my own mind.
It happens again and again: I learn and then forget and then relearn how life is change and change is loss. My neighbor brings me a cup of fresh-picked wild blueberries; I immediately spill them on the ground. At the center of every moment is an essential contradiction. I scoop the half-smashed berries up with my bare hands, thinking of my mother. Summertime, she used to sing, and the living is easy. This is how she would encourage me to sleep. Hush, little baby, don’t you cry. This is how I first learned the sadness of comfort, the melancholy at the core of all that is beautiful. My hands are stained deep purple. It takes hours before the color’s gone.
It happens again: The berries I encounter in the forest might be poisonous or they might be perfectly safe. I wonder if it matters. I want to know how they taste. Isn’t there some kind of dignity in dying for sweetness? Google tells me: bunchberries are an edible and easy-to-identify wild berry option. I am both disappointed and relieved. The taste is bland; the skin is warm and smooth. I continue walking. Today will not be the day. A cool wind percusses through the highest of the leaves.