I remember the times at the farm. Sitting under the grape vines, licking my sweet and sticky fingers after almost eating myself sick. I would lie there, full and content, resting in the soft shade and sucking on mint leaves. The dirt was warm and fine, almost like an earthen cushion. It was summer, and that only meant freedom. When I got thirsty, I would sip some water from a freshly carved watermelon, and then leave it to the birds.
When it was almost dusk, I would head towards the boysenberries. I'd pick handfuls and handfuls, heaping them into a fold I created in my shirt. Swatting the flies as I headed back, I felt so content in the fading rays of the sun.
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