Cherry Picking Gone Wrong

organic cherries ... no herbicides ...  grown on local cherry trees

I wanted to make a cherry pie.

Not any cherry pie.

But a pie made from cherries on the lots next door. I had the lard in the fridge for the crust.

 I had plenty of plastic buckets to hold the cherries.

 I had the manpower: the whole Jarvis family.

Can I reach it?  or maybe that reach will be a little far?

They were willing to pick that many cherries.

At the very least, pick enough for one pie.

And there were ladders for everyone, or so it seemed.

But one little person was still on the ground, a few cherries hanging down from her ears, but no ladder for her.

She could see that the real fun seemed to be up in a tree.

My bucket is not getting very full.

Now I don’t know how it happened. But something made her foot kick the bucket of cherries that was on the ground, which did get her some attention, but not the attention that she was wanting.

I felt like this once, too, Hebe.

Here is a place on my shoulder that might help.  Lean into it.

Some tears ensued – both under the cherry tree, on her walk home, and the tears continued out on the front of her grandma’s porch.

The tears continued probably long after the memory of why she was crying had gone.

The tears couldn’t be stopped.

All's well that ends well

I was reminded of the number of tears ahead of her (if she lives to be as old as me), and I wondered if they any of the future tears will have the same deep effect that the accidental turning over of the small bucket of cherries by that tap of her foot seemed to be having now.

By the time she got to the beach, the incident was long gone for her mind.

 Not for mine.

Arta