Last year, I didn’t write about you publicly at all. (This pandemic took over—it sometimes seems—everything.) But last year, I planted two blueberry bushes, and this year, they flowered. Today, thirteen years after you’ve gone and three years after Uncle Peter too, I have been thinking about blueberries.

I remember being maybe 7 or 8, walking along with you and my siblings in the woods, hunting for berries. We followed you from not-too-far away as we left the safety of forged trails and trekked under a canopy of trees. We brushed aside pricker bushes and swatted at bugs as you became an intense seeker, your eyes bluer and your gate wider. You seemed to have to force yourself to slow down so our shorter legs could keep up. When you spotted that crop of wild berries, a big grin spread across your face, your gapped front teeth jutting out as you hollered, “Look! See?” You encouraged us to pick from the branches and taste the fresh, feral fruit. What a delicious adventure!

So this date remains a reminder, each year, of what you left us—things like a true love of blueberries. (atp)