MARLBORO — On Sundays, my husband and I stroll up our dirt road to MacArthur Road. Our walk is canopied by the lush growth of summer, until we arrive with the others under the warm sun at the farm stand, our community chapel.
Each parishioner, barefoot in the grass, takes her communion from the tray beside the coffee pot - a golden scone filled with juicy goodness. Today's choice is raspberry or blueberry; the latter having just ripened upon the hill in Marlboro.
I am not fit for company, so I tuck my scone into my basket, and I head out into the field under the netting where the berries grow.
I cannot pluck a single blueberry without slipping into the past. I fall in beside my great-grandmother in Rehoboth, Del., picking and packing and canning and freezing summer's bounty to kiss us all winter long.
Today, it seems that I can't pick at all. Though my husband works diligently beside one bush, I bob from plant to plant, taking in the shades of blue and purple and black, in communion with my Nana.
The dew on each berry lightens the impact of yesterday's trauma. A diving accident. A CAT scan. Sixteen stitches. The blood pouring down the face of Lloyd, my son, as he emerged from the pond.
Lloyd is reborn today, prancing down the stairs in his Sunday finest, claiming, “I might as well wear something nice since I can't do anything to get them dirty.”
At 16, my son's life is temporarily restricted by this injury, but at 47, I feel undone by what might have happened - and shaken to the roots by what did.
As my husband fills a basket with berries for breakfast, I pick as my son once did - nibbling my way through the patch, letting the sweetness of life's offering soften my soul on this Sunday morning in Vermont.