Ruffles and Rust

This afternoon I went and picked peaches with Karnie. Hand picking fruit floods my mind with memories, wonderful memories. I spent many summers earning money for my first car by picking blueberries. I loved picking berries growing up, the money, the hard work and early mornings. Buying my own car at 16 was a huge accomplishment, even today I’m kinda impressed with myself (and my parents for “allowing” me to do it.).
This afternoon for just a rare hour or so I was not trapped in the concrete jungle I was home again. I was in the midst of farmland, fresh air, birds, and green grass.
Dylan walked up to me with a scratch on his leg with a little bit of blood. He smiled, looked up and said, “Mom, that feels good”. How many times has Dylan scratched himself on sticker bushes in our back yard searching for the perfect blackberry?
I stole a bite from a peach right off the tree, there are very few words that can adequately describe the taste of fruit fresh from the branch. In that first burst of juice there is so much complexity. The taste of summer, sweat, hard work, laughter, pies, first love, first heartbreak, Grandma and campfires. As the juice was trickling down my chin, there was this moment of perfection, a moment so simple in nature, yet so resounding to the soul.