Strawberry bushes hold magic.
Domes cover them, the towering, fan-like protrusions one may call leaves. They are their protection, like a parasol for a far too fair maiden. Their flowers act like flags, soaring toward the sky and waving their delicate petals like that same lady’s handkerchief at the chivalrous and life-giving honey bees.
Once chosen, the flower’s job is done. From its source, fruit is born. A pencil-tip point that grows to pinkie-sized, thumb-sized, or, if it’s your lucky day, a toe-sized sweet treat.
I discard the browned, the mushed, and the never-quite-formed. With a motion of my thumb, like the start of a coin flip, I shoot the decay away.
I adore these miniature rainforests and the kapow feeling and taste from the gnash into the flesh, the drips of red juice down my chin.
I’m a hunting animal in the bushes, my skill honed in brushing past unfruited leaves and going in for the kill. Twenty today, a dozen two days ago.
As I work, I find compassion for myself. To unhitch my thoughts for a moment and let the spell they cast over me sink in.
I love it here. The bounty of bushes and berries. I am thankful for them, for the work I’ve put in. One weed I pulled today. That’s all. A notable accomplishment thanks to two earlier weedings.
The tomatoes are unbelievably healthy, but the chore of staking them has arrived. Without another solution presenting itself, I plan to go hunting for a dozen three-foot branches to prop them up.
Care to know one more thing that makes me happy?
The miniature white wooden picket fence.
It’s the American dream—or some version of it passed down to young minds. The house, the family, and a white picket fence.
Only mine is twelve inches tall, lining a portion of the yard.
And somehow, that makes me love it even more.