Picking Wawawi Berries

I move cautiously through thorny walls,

while plump black nobs plop

into my palm, gifts

from the Wawawi swamps

along the shores of the Snake River

in Washington.

Sticky juice drips from my fingertips,

splatters across my footpath—

for some odd reason

reminding me of absence.

The striped scars across my belly,

like those on my thorn-scraped arms,

declare the price I've paid, serve as reminders

of our together time here, my sons and I,

when they were fresh with reverence.

Now I am alone on this mission

and they are grown.

But the stripes are nothing.

These twisted vines tear at my arms

like memories that fail to fog, brambles

that won't let go.

The yellow tub fills

slowly with small sun-warmed bodies

that will burst into jars of jam and later

snuggle into a suitcase for them.

Their tartness

tastes of loss.

The red stains beneath my nails, like longings

to retrieve one fraction of our time here,

will rinse away under the cool spring brook.

And they may smile and thank me, never

understanding the cost.