A Love Letter

I read this to someone over the phone. I hope he doesn't believe that by my sharing it, it removes the validity of the sentiment behind it. If anything it is to elevate it.


On a late summer's day, I was reminded of you.

It was just past noon. I was picking wild blackberries in my parent's orchard. The wind had died down for a few minutes, but the leaves in the tops of the trees were still rustling, their paper sounds echoing in the air.

I picked them slowly, eating a few, using one hand to cup them, the other for picking.

The summer is short here in Nova Scotia, the seasons for soft fruits even shorter. Raspberries last three weeks, strawberries a month if you're lucky. Blackberries are at the tail end of it all, reminding you that soon you will be pickling the summer's crops, soon you will be making apple pies and wearing sweaters in the eveings.

All of this reminded me of you. You introduced me to food writers and reminded me that I should use what i have when I can and to its fullest extent.

Perhaps this is why I enjoy you so much.

My mother came back with a small plastic container and for fifteen minutes, we went digging through the brambles and the tall weeds for the soft black fruits. Unlike raspberries, which you almost have to use as soon as they are picked, or strawberries which can be kept for a few days, blackberries keep relatively well for soft fruits. You simply coddle them a little, place them on white paper towels in a basket, and they will keep.

If you treat them well, they will remind you why you love summer. You have a few more days with them than their tart pink cousins who excite you with summery sweetness.

So I was reminded of you, my hand full of soft sweet berries, of books and stories you told me of and of the idea of you.

I thank you for the idea of you.