Warm, sweet, juice running down your fingers. That’s the way I remember the black raspberries I picked behind my grandpa’s workshop on the farm years ago when I was a kid. We each got to spend a few days at grandma’s house during the summers back then. I tried to choose days when the black raspberries were ripe and if we were lucky Grandma and I had fresh berries on our cereal every morning.

Years later my sister came here for a visit and we went for a long bike ride. One of the highlights that day was coming across a huge patch of black raspberries, hundreds ripe for the picking. So we did, turning our fingers purple with memories.

This year in my own backyard, where I haven’t noticed any growing before, I found plump ripe berries today. Reaching into the thorny bushes for the perfect berry I was 12 again and back behind the workshop picking for my grandma’s breakfast.

It was sweet.