Blackberries

She reached for the blackberry vine, clutching it to steady herself. She reeled, and her knees buckled as she slowly sank to the ground.

Dorchester County, flat and surrounded by brackish water, borders the salty Chesapeake Bay. Alice lived on a neck of land “down below,“ as it was called—sometimes derisively. Her property, and most of the county, was far south of the banks of the broad, muscular river that carved the northern border.

The mostly marshy land was flat and punctuated by thin woods that stretched to the water's edge. The ground, soft from the advance and retreat of the tide, slowly eroded under the roots of the tall pines clinging to the soft mud. After years, they would fall. Sometimes, a lightning strike would kill one of the trees rooted in the shallow water. The dead trees were thin, pale, and stubborn. She was, too.

Her home sat on the southeast corner of a few acres of property. The wind moved east across the Bay and scoured the land and the house clean. A steady calm seeped from the sandy ground.

She planted a small and surprisingly profitable garden that began a few steps from the back of the house and ran along the edge of the property sheltered by a ragged tree line. She grew tomatoes, peas, and beets—all to eat now or preserve for the cold and blustery winter. She lovingly tended blackberries each spring and excitedly picked them in late July when they were ripe and heavy on the vine. What she didn’t eat in fresh handfuls—her astringent willpower failed when it came to blackberries—she made into blackberry preserves.

One morning, Alice woke to a clear, warm sunrise, painting her bedroom wall. She rose and walked to her kitchen, lighting the gas stove and placing the coffee pot on the burner. She loved hearing the old percolator begin its quiet song. It reminded her of her father, who rose early and made coffee—the smell filling their small home. Each morning, the memory of her father became colorful and clear, only fading in the light of the early afternoon.

She reached for the blackberry vine, clutching it to steady herself. She reeled, and her knees buckled as she slowly sank to the ground.

Her coffee was hot and strong. She usually added a little cream. Drinking her first cup, she planned her day. With an expectant smile, she took a pail from a small pantry. She would patiently wait until the afternoon to pick blackberries. The sun would warm them, and they would be sweet when she put handfuls in her mouth. They would probably be her dinner. She didn’t eat as much as she used to. The years took her appetite.

A little after two in the afternoon, she walked to the blackberry vines with her pail. The berries were warm, but she remembered them being warmer last year. They did not look as dark as they should. The vines were paler green, too. She looked up toward the sun's lowering circuit. The clouds were high and thin above. What should have been a bright blue sky was only a washed gray. The sun seemed faded and colder.

She continued picking berries until the pail was full. Walking along the length of the vines, she made her way to the back of the house, swinging the screen door wide on its creaking hinges, and walked into the kitchen. Emptying the pail into the sink half filled with water for rinsing, she looked out the window toward the blackberries. The breeze moved the branches of gnarled old hackberry trees standing along a swale choked with brambles and poison sumac at the back of her property. But it looked to her like the yard, sky, and even the sun were fading.

What should have been a clear July day was pale and lifeless. The world looked hidden behind a gauze. Somehow, the ground seemed less substantial under her feet, less solid. She walked on the blades of bleached grass instead of crushing it under her feet. She still carried the pail. It swung lightly on its wire handle and moved like a piece of paper ruffled by a stiff breeze.

Walking to the middle of the vines, she dropped the pail, expecting it to blow away, but it only hit the ground with a faint metallic sound. She reached for the blackberry vine, clutching it to steady herself. She reeled, and her knees buckled as she slowly sank to the ground.

She was unsure how long she lay in the dirt. After moving her head to the left and right, she rose on her elbow and steadied herself. The pail lay tipped over where she had dropped it. Looking toward her house, she watched the curtain in the kitchen move in small billows as the wind blew through the window. Around the corner of the house walked a woman. She was calling out, but her words were muffled. It looked like she was searching.

“Maddie, I’m over here,“ Alice said when the woman ignored her. She said it louder. “Maddie! Maddie! Help. I'm over here.“ Maddie continued her walk around the circumference of the old house.

Alice sat propped up on her arms for a while, sucking air into her lungs. Maddie rounded the side of the house and walked down the length of the blackberry vines. Alice watched her looking around, unsure why she couldn’t see her sitting on the ground. When Maddie neared, she said abruptly, “I’m glad you came back here. I guess I would’ve crawled home. Just help me up.” Maddie looked over her head and walked to where she had dropped the pail

“Leave it. I’ll get it later. Just help me up. I’m not seeing straight, and I want to get to the house.“ Maddie picked up the pail, ignored the pleas, walked to the back of the property, turned right, and began rounding the perimeter.

She raised your voice louder, “Help! Do you hear me? Help!” Maddie turned her head slightly like she was straining to hear a faint sound, then walked away.

Tears of anger welled up in her eyes. Her voice seemed clear in her ears, but the sound of the wind, birdsong, ordinary sounds she took for granted, were quieted.

She sat dumb with anger and confusion and watched the sun fall behind the row of trees to the west. She made it to her feet and dreaded the coming darkness. But the night only blinked. The pale sun rose quickly in the east, moved gracefully across the sky in an ark, and set. The dark passed quickly. Then, the rim of the sun painted the morning sky once again. With a dizzying speed, the blackberry vines wilted until they fell in the autumn rain.

She took steps toward her home in the rapid passing of days. With each step, her house weathered. Paint peeled from the clapboard, and weeds grew tall along the foundation. The aging screen door flapped against its frame.

Then, as the wind blew harder, she slowly floated off the ground and grabbed at the air.