A Childhood, Pre-Solstice

A Childhood, Pre-Solstice

By Grace Sleeman

When I was growing up, my house was surrounded by 

blackberry thickets.

My brother and I would take yogurt cartons from the

kitchen,

sneak out too early —

when the sun was still just gilding the trees and 

the summer heat was just an idea for later,

simmering on the dusty driveway.

       In my memory our entire lives were July mornings:

       our feet bare, even in the tangle of thorns and grass.

                             My hands were always sticky with blackberry juice,

                                  mouths and cheeks stained 

   purple; the berries sun-sweet on our tongues.

There aren’t many pictures of us from those days.

   The two of us must have looked like feral children

with our tangled hair, curls bleached blonde from the sun —

         freckles wild across sunburned cheeks and knees scraped bloody.

    After we picked the blackberries we’d eat whole containers and try 

to make jam with the ones we had left. There are still smears on the white 

cabinets from when the pan

overturned

and stained us both purple.