The Ineffable Taste of Unwashed Blackberries
a short story
The sun was making its way up the sky and the neighborhood buzzed with the sound of lawnmowers when the Wintuck family loaded up their minivan and drove off to pick blackberries.
In the driver’s seat was Dad, with his aviator sunglasses, farmer’s tan, and practical sneakers. Mother was beside him, fussing with Google Maps and trying to remember where their spot, the spot, the world’s most perfect blackberry picking spot was. Bobby and Daisy were strapped into carseats behind their parents, bouncing in time to the music and pausing only to throw animal crackers at each other. Grandma sat in the backseat.
The minivan wove through tangled neighborhoods before making its way between farmland and stretches of forest. After about twenty minutes, Dad pulled up alongside a large, glorious blackberry bush.
“Grab the baskets!” he called.
There was a flurry of activity as the Wintucks took their stations: Dad outside the car so he could reach the highest places, Bobby and Daisy perched in the open door, and Mother beside them, making sure they didn’t tumble out in their enthusiasm. Grandma sat in the backseat.
Daisy plucked a berry from the bush and lifted it to her lips.
