Prayer Breakfast in Memoriam, Peter H. Thompson.
At the kitchen window, with a freshly rinsed box of blueberries, thinking about the dog who needs a walk, and what's on at work, I pop one into my mouth, methodically consuming it - and another, and another....
Then comes, quietly, a gentle reproach, from a friend just recently gone. "Wait!" ... "That's a blueberry!" ... "you're eating!" I almost feel his hand on my arm, his voice clear; maybe a little sad.
I savor the next one - dark orb. The skin smooth against my tongue, a soft pluck where the stem gave way. Textured flaps on the blossom end. Picture the blooming, it flowers, withers and drops. Then, berries plump in the sun.
I roll the taut skin against the roof of my mouth, imagine its dusty deep blue, feel its cool smoothness warming. Then, a soft snap as skin gives way to teeth, and tart mushy pulp meets my taste buds.
Savor this physicality, this being, in all its measure. Cherish its richness. Really feel it! For those who no longer can, depend on it.
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