I Wish to Pick Blueberries With you.

Content Warning: Death of a loved one, Cancer.

I regret not taking him blueberry picking.

We drive on different hemispheres, now. This man who stood beside me all those days, years, summers. This man who picked gallon after gallon of blueberries. So strong. So beautiful. He was an angel before he ever received his own wings. His halo formed in the sun and shade of towering bushes. The sweet aroma of crushed blueberries on our boots. The smiles carved of the heavens and handful after handful we never paid for. One gallon turned to four, we easily ate times that. We easily surpassed records. Blueberries ripe and freezers filled.

I walk the field now, bucket shifted to my hip. A family member walks by. It is not you/him. him/you. Why do I tell the story like it’s not to him? I mean- you. Like it’s not made to be a love letter, a rusted thank you card, you’re in my prayers card. This is not to an omniscient being, the angel, this is to you.

I regret not taking you blueberry picking.

It was that last year. The one of indoors and chemical bottles. The one of sleeping in back rooms and walking on crutches and- has your headache gone down? The pain went away? Are you better, are you ready? No, not yet. Yes, fine, when are you going to be? 

I regret not giving you a hug.

Those days you could sit in front of me. As we talked about books in the way only you would listen, as you ate my protein brownies with that sighing wondrous look on your ancient face even in the most rancid batch, we watched a Beatle film and I watched you, you told me I look beautiful in green and I wanted to beg you to tell me the same in another year, in ten, to stay. Stay. Come blueberry picking with me, get your appetite back so we can eat gallons full, so that we can feast on blueberry steel-cut oats and blueberry yogurt smoothies and blueberry banana ice cream. Take me out to get dollar tacos like you did last time, plan a trip to my graduation in five years, stop making that face. You know the one. Where you close your eyes sighing in that wondrous way like it's your last. Tell me the truth, is it your last?

I was scared to wrap my arms around you when the thought of feeling bones terrified me.

I was scared to look at the twig and gray of your arm when there used to be metal and warmth. 

I was scared to think of the before, when I went to my dance regionals and the headache that stole my breath, the way you massaged my neck and rubbed essential oils under my ears. When you took us to Colorado and handed me washed raspberries, drove me home when the burger joint gave me a stomach ache. Gave me your blanket as you ate your potato soup from a cure-all diet and the rest of us celebrated fathers day with sandwiches. 

I was scared to come into your room, seeing you lay on that couch, that neck rest, the way you offered me coffee when you knew it was what replaced my blood, the way only you understood when I stopped eating meat and asked for something green. Only you understood why I loved to read and never speak.

I was scared to think of you running a triathlon cancer results be blasted. Scared to think of you so handsome, so strong. Scared to think of you Obsessed with peanut butter as though it was the best jar on earth, the way you said now you couldn't taste now. You couldn’t taste peanut butter and you couldn’t taste the gallons upon gallons of blueberries I brought to you when your legs turned to carvings and the cells grew too fast and you began to forget the names of all the old memories.

You- Obsessed with kindness and jokes and God you were funny. Funny like your brother, my dad. You- Funny in the modest and hilarious way. In the end, you couldn’t tell jokes. Not like you used to. You laid on the bed in purple light. Eyes closed to the chorus of us singing the Psalms. 

I was scared to hug you goodbye…

I never hugged you goodbye. 

My hand lingers over the sweet berries. I think, somewhere in the field, in the sunlight, the summer heat and chirping insects and thick-leaved bushes- you're here. Your body whole and strong, not weak and corpsed. Your smile warm and bright, not cold and closed. Your hair is still thick, gray and black curling your ears, not shaved away completely, you got it before the disease could. You won the battles but it won the war.

I can’t, can't, can't.

It's choked breathing. It's believing. We’re celebrating your 68th birthday, not your one year anniversary of being gone forever forever forever.

I step from the folds of the bushes, I shift my blueberry bucket over my hip. I block out the sun we no longer share as it pulls at my skin. I block out the sound of your voice and the last days I watched you, unable to speak, your eyes watchful, you looked at me and I looked at you and no one in the universe could have convinced me you didn’t recognize my face.

You couldn’t speak- you recognized me.

You couldn’t hug me- you were there.

I regret not taking your blueberry picking….

That last year, when the cancer spread so fast, when the doctors pumped your veins with medicine and no sunlight. When you couldn’t leave your room. When I wanted to beg- get up. It's just cells, it can’t kill you, stop it, please get up. Please come pick blueberries. Roonies farm is open- please. Stop saying you don’t feel like it. Stop saying your head hurts. Just please- come with me.

I walk without smelling the crushed berries, blue, black, red. Without hearing your voice, bright, kind, funny. I step into the sun. And know, somewhere, somewhere I can not comprehend. Somewhere far far away, you're stepping into the sun too.