My fingers pushed their way into the bush, brushing back spiny leaves and rough branches. My eyes were fixed on the prize, the plump, purple blueberry clinging to a twig in the center of the mass of brambles. Eventually my hand reached it, my purple-stained fingers pulling it out and admiring it. I glanced down at my bucket, then shrugged and popped it in my mouth, enjoying the brief burst of purple, blue, and red flavors that lingered on my tongue. Then I dove my hand back into the bush, grabbing for clusters of fat berries hidden deep in the shady parts of the bush.
Blueberries are not really blue when you pick them off the bush. They are more a shade of purple. This shade of purple is almost like a powder that entirely coats the blueberry, that starts to rub off as soon as a single finger touches it. That is why the blueberries you buy from the market will always be that rich shade of navy blue, but never the deep blue-violet of the berries still on the bush. They taste different while on the bush too. For one, they are never cold. They bake all day in the hot sun, so by the time they reach your mouth they are very warm. I like them better this way. It almost accentuates the flavors, so that they leave a bright bang in your mouth.
When partaking in such a monotonous, repetitive activity as picking blueberries, you mind has plenty of time to wander. Mine skipped all the formalities and headed right to the questions of the very universe, puzzling the endless puzzle. Sadly, I quite forget exactly what I was ruminating on, but I do know for a fact that by the time we needed to leave the patch, I had formulated a very rough, if not entirely ridiculous, hypothesis about something.
But that's beside the point. At the end of the day my stomach was full of warm blueberries and I was hot and sticky and covered in dust and purple stains, but most of all I was content.
