by Evelyn Duboff

I remember the smell of pies baking, berry pies, permeating the
clear country air.

My grandmother, in our small summer cottage, did the baking.
I can see her round, smiling face, her long black hair pulled back in a bun, her ardent hands kneading the dough, leveling it with a rolling pin, pouring in the berries.

Alongside her, my grandfather, tall and thin, with twinkling
eyes, and a face like Abraham Lincoln's, made the jams: strawberry, blackberry, raspberry, blueberry. They would last all winter long.

We picked them, pails full, my little sister, my brothers and I.
We squealed with excitement discovering them, wild berries, like
glittering jewels, covering the hills.

Life was perfect then-though we didn't know it. Nothing would ever compare to it.