Love of Berries

I want to run wild through that berry field behind the brick house my father bought when I was seven and skinny and still a natural blond with naive, blue eyes. I might even wear a white, linen dress and satin gloves like I wore the last time I saw it on Easter Sunday when I was nine. It would be just past dusk, and the snuffed-out sun would veil my pale skin and shade the tip of my bridgeless, up-turned nose. Feverishly, my white gloved hands would ravage the bushes, ripping at bloated berries until my wrists were smeared with blood-black juice. I would shove a fistful in my mouth, sour drool staining my thin lips blue, much bluer than my stale, gray eyes, and I'd lick berries from my dripping skin until my father called me home.