The Ballad Of The Blackberry Girl
A man. A girl. A harvest of berries, and a ballad where the chorus moans, not mourns.
My garden grows a wealth of things: Redcurrants, blackcurrants, gooseberries, raspberries. But September brings its sweetest sins— Thorny briars, purple-black, ripened quick, the blackberries. Now less nimble, stiff with age, Ladder steep, sun so bright, pick them all before the night. I hear her giggle at my side— Neighbor’s daughter, just eighteen, always helpful, always bright. “Mr. Hansen,” she grins at me, “I will he...