Leo Johnson

“These taste better wild,” I said. 

She looked up from the phone in her hand long enough to see the clamshell container of blackberries I held. 

“Oh, yeah? That’s great…” she trailed off.

I kept on. 

“Where I grew up, you could go out into the woods and find blackberries growing wild all over. The bushes were everywhere, thick and heavy with fruit. Come June or July, we’d all go out there dressed in long sleeves and long pants so the thorns wouldn’t get us and harvest as many as we could. It was hotter than hell under those long sleeves, but that was better than getting pricked a bunch and being itchy all day.

"There were so many blackberries. As kids, we’d eat so many that we’d nearly get sick, plus fill up all the grocery bags and five-gallon buckets we brought. And then there’d still be just as many or more left on the bushes.

"We’d lug our prize back to the house, popping even more berries in our mouth while my mom and dad weren’t looking. My mom would make jams and pies with some of them, we’d eat a bunch more plain over the next couple days, and we’d freeze even more to make pies with or eat later. A fresh, wild blackberry is one of maybe my most vivid memories as a kid. One of my happiest, if we’re honest. You’ve heard how my parents were; there weren’t always good memories.

"I miss that kind of thing most, now that I’m living in the city. Just going out into the woods and coming back with something delicious and special. You felt connected to things in a way that’s hard to explain. I miss that feeling, you know?” 

“Oh, really? It seems easier to just buy them, honestly.” And she walked away to the next aisle. I knew then this wouldn’t last.

Leo Johnson is a writer originally from a small town in Alabama, but now living in a big city in California. He enjoys gardening, reading, and cooking. He doesn’t enjoy how often he has to repeat himself because of his accent.