The Berry Pickers

by Amanda Peters

But I was happy, looking forward to the future, to building a home full of light, where neighbours would smile when they walked past and heard laughter through open windows. I was determined to live where sunlight streamed through open curtains and children played in the yard, where pictures took up too much space on the walls and hushed

I owe debts to so many people, debts I know I’ll never be able to pay, and it weighs on me. People have given me their time, their love, their bodies, their secrets. And I’ve given so little.

Some wounds cannot be healed. Some wounds never close, never scar. But the further away from the injury, the easier it became to smile.

Grief can be wide and feel bottomless sometimes, but eventually, it begins to subside, to grow into something useful.

“Maybe you have bad luck, but there is nothing sour in us. We’ve been through shit, remember. Every one of us alive today comes from something bad done to the family that came before us. You being alive is a goddamn miracle, so no more talk about sour blood. Own your mistakes, make amends and move on. We owe that to those who didn’t make it.”