The rows of the blueberry farm
are dotted with women,
some alone and some in pairs,
tending each other’s children.
Their voices are so kind
as they intone the blueberry mantras-
Remember, only pick the blue and purply ones.
If they are white or green or reddish,
let them alone to ripen a bit more for someone else.
You may eat one,
but see how many you can put in your basket.
Oh that’s a beautiful big juicy blue one!
Perfect to bring home to Daddy.
They talk to each other in low voices,
sharing ideas for the cooking,
baking, eating and drinking
of blueberries.
They talk of their grown children
or their little ones.
The summer plans, how different this one is
from the last dreary year.
How often they call their parents,
How often their children call them.
How peaceful it is
How they wish they could pick all day,
the gratifying sound of berries
being dropped into their buckets.
My mother has worked her way well down the row.
She can’t get low to pick the ones underneath anymore,
she reaches only what she can and that is enough.
I look down the row from time to time to make sure she hasn’t fallen.
It is getting hot and our buckets are getting heavy.
We agree it’s time to stop, though I ache to pick more-
Blueberries make you greedy.
We head slowly back to the entrance where we will pay.
Her back to the sun, her hair is soaking wet.
I carry her bucket now, so I’m balanced I say.
We take our time. It won’t be long years before
My daughter will carry my bucket
On our slow walk back.
“I’ll pay for everyone’s blueberries. That’s what I’m here for,”
she says and I think of Great Aunt Mimi
standing at the kitchen sink decades ago,
doing the dishes after a big family meal.
‘This is my contribution’ she would laugh,
‘I never learned to cook, but I can wash dishes.’
This is what women do-
They do what they can.
The Fox at Dawn 