Blueberry Hill

Blueberry Hill. Somewhere in northern Minnesota, beyond the gravel trail, sits Blueberry Hill. Because of an overabundance of blueberry plants, the land inherits its name. This is where I grew up. This is where my mother would send the older kids on sunlit summer days. "You can come home when you have enough blueberries", she would say, and send us along with empty cottage cheese containers and a jug of kool-aid.

A trip to Blueberry Hill was always an invitation to play. The gravel trail through the woods would spur our imaginations, and each journey would turn into one adventure or another. And, suddenly, the woods would open up revealing the beauty of Blueberry Hill. We would pick and we would play. We would sing and we would fight. Since I was the oldest, it was my responsibility to rally the troops, eventually, and get mother her blueberries. We would march home, triumphant and thirsty ( the jug empty for some time ). "Here we are, mother dear, and here are your blueberries", we would cry. "We worked so hard in this summer heat". Mother would reward us with more kool-aid and something sweet to eat.

There were seven of us kids. The youngest, Sean, was too little for blueberry-picking before I left home. I never shared forest adventures with him. Years passed and young adults moved out and on. I don't know if Sean ever had berry-picking adventures.

On a cold, numbing January day in 1995, Sean took his life. Winter's chill was a fitting backdrop to my very existence. With the new birth of spring, my spirit began to thaw. Once again, we gathered together and walked the gravel trail through the woods. A curtain of sunlight invited us to our destination. We laid Sean's ashes among the blueberry bushes.

In my dreams, Sean is having forest adventures with the rest of us. In my dreams, Sean is there with us. On Blueberry Hill.