Blueberries This morning I ate blueberries, tart and sweet slight grit, soft explosions in my mouth. I thought of my nephew, recently introduced to the pleasures of eating, now able to feed himself in fistfuls with those long fingers he folded beneath his chin the day he was born; I saw the Buddha in his hands. He seems to hold the secret of contentment in the world he inhabits; almost everything is cause for smiling, is reason to reach, point, look, explore with face and mouth and skin. When he eats blueberries, it is enough to fill his sweet body with such satisfaction his whole being radiates delight. He stretches a finger in my direction and I bend closer to receive his benediction, the blessing of his sticky touch.
Carole Greenfield grew up in Colombia and lives in Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Red Dancefloor, Gulfstream, Women’s Words, Beltway Quarterly Review, and is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and Dodging the Rain.
Amethyst Review 