am speechless... stunned, and filled with hope. “I’d be honored.”
We smile at each other, foolishly. We’ve lost so much, so many years. But I’m not going to think about them anymore. I’m not going to look back. There’s a way forward now, a chance. Perhaps now Annabel will be a real daughter to me... and I’ll be a real father to her.
“Fancy an ice cream?” I ask and Annabel smiles almost shyly.
“Why not?”
As we walk down the promenade I see the father with the little red headed girl. She is dancing around him, chattering. He falls back, exhausted from their antics. Our gazes meet and he rolls his eyes in the universal expression of the shared joys and trials of fatherhood.
I smile back and nod. He thinks I’m Annabel’s father, I realize. I look at Annabel, walking beside me, and I know that’s what I’ve always been... even if she hasn’t treated me as such, even if I haven’t acted as one. I’m still her dad. Nothing can change that.
BLUEBERRIES FOR BREAKFAST
I hate blueberries. Actually, that’s not true. I love eating them, or I used to anyway, but I can’t stand picking them. Every summer me and Jimmy--that’s my brother--spend the mornings and some of the afternoons picking pails full of the things. Blueberries.
Once upon a time, when I was little--I’m thirteen now--I loved blueberries. Mum used to make blueberry pancakes for breakfast, dripping with butter and our own maple syrup that Dad made in the spring. That was back before Dad died, and we still lived on the farm, instead of this falling down place on the edge of town.
Back then, I loved going out picking with Mum. We’d swing our metal pails and sing songs, just the two of us, our voices echoing in the woods. We’d race to see who could find the biggest and best patch, and we’d tease each other about who could fill her pail first. We’d sneak mouthfuls of berries when the other wasn’t looking, and dissolve into giggles when we were found out.
That was back when picking berries was fun, because the pails we brought home were used for pancakes and pies and jam.
Now the berries are carefully emptied into little white cardboard containers, the kind Dad and I used to buy chips in, with gravy. Mum lines the cartons up on her roadside stall, underneath the big sign Jimmy and I painted: “Wild Blueberries for Sale, $12 for 1 pint, $24 for 1 quart.”
The blueberries you see in the supermarket don’t look anything like the fruit we pick. They’re what Mum calls domesticated, and they’re big and fat but taste like the carton they come in... or so Mum says. The wild blueberries--the ones we pick on our knees--are tiny and dark and bursting with the taste of sunshine. They’re sweet and tart at the same time, and I used to love to roll them on my tongue before biting through the smooth, dusky skin and savoring the little explosion of flavor.
It takes a whole lot of these little berries to fill a big pail. At least that’s what I’m thinking now as I kneel in one of the biggest patches. The sun is hot and the mosquitoes buzz around my head. My fingers are stained blue, the tips sore from picking among the briars. My pail is only half full, and this patch is almost picked out. In a few minutes, I’ll have to find a new picking place, and I’m not looking forward to it. I want to go home. I want to dump these berries out and forget about them.
Since Dad died, summers have been for work. Mum picks with us to start, and then when the cottage season starts and the tourists drive through in their flashy cars from Toronto, she mans the stall. She’s offered to let me do it, but I always say no. It’s an easy job, and I want Mum to have the easy job.
For the last few years she’s worked all kinds of jobs, none of them easy. There isn’t much work to be had in this little town, halfway between nowhere and Toronto. We’re not quite cottage
We smile at each other, foolishly. We’ve lost so much, so many years. But I’m not going to think about them anymore. I’m not going to look back. There’s a way forward now, a chance. Perhaps now Annabel will be a real daughter to me... and I’ll be a real father to her.
“Fancy an ice cream?” I ask and Annabel smiles almost shyly.
“Why not?”
As we walk down the promenade I see the father with the little red headed girl. She is dancing around him, chattering. He falls back, exhausted from their antics. Our gazes meet and he rolls his eyes in the universal expression of the shared joys and trials of fatherhood.
I smile back and nod. He thinks I’m Annabel’s father, I realize. I look at Annabel, walking beside me, and I know that’s what I’ve always been... even if she hasn’t treated me as such, even if I haven’t acted as one. I’m still her dad. Nothing can change that.
BLUEBERRIES FOR BREAKFAST
I hate blueberries. Actually, that’s not true. I love eating them, or I used to anyway, but I can’t stand picking them. Every summer me and Jimmy--that’s my brother--spend the mornings and some of the afternoons picking pails full of the things. Blueberries.
Once upon a time, when I was little--I’m thirteen now--I loved blueberries. Mum used to make blueberry pancakes for breakfast, dripping with butter and our own maple syrup that Dad made in the spring. That was back before Dad died, and we still lived on the farm, instead of this falling down place on the edge of town.
Back then, I loved going out picking with Mum. We’d swing our metal pails and sing songs, just the two of us, our voices echoing in the woods. We’d race to see who could find the biggest and best patch, and we’d tease each other about who could fill her pail first. We’d sneak mouthfuls of berries when the other wasn’t looking, and dissolve into giggles when we were found out.
That was back when picking berries was fun, because the pails we brought home were used for pancakes and pies and jam.
Now the berries are carefully emptied into little white cardboard containers, the kind Dad and I used to buy chips in, with gravy. Mum lines the cartons up on her roadside stall, underneath the big sign Jimmy and I painted: “Wild Blueberries for Sale, $12 for 1 pint, $24 for 1 quart.”
The blueberries you see in the supermarket don’t look anything like the fruit we pick. They’re what Mum calls domesticated, and they’re big and fat but taste like the carton they come in... or so Mum says. The wild blueberries--the ones we pick on our knees--are tiny and dark and bursting with the taste of sunshine. They’re sweet and tart at the same time, and I used to love to roll them on my tongue before biting through the smooth, dusky skin and savoring the little explosion of flavor.
It takes a whole lot of these little berries to fill a big pail. At least that’s what I’m thinking now as I kneel in one of the biggest patches. The sun is hot and the mosquitoes buzz around my head. My fingers are stained blue, the tips sore from picking among the briars. My pail is only half full, and this patch is almost picked out. In a few minutes, I’ll have to find a new picking place, and I’m not looking forward to it. I want to go home. I want to dump these berries out and forget about them.
Since Dad died, summers have been for work. Mum picks with us to start, and then when the cottage season starts and the tourists drive through in their flashy cars from Toronto, she mans the stall. She’s offered to let me do it, but I always say no. It’s an easy job, and I want Mum to have the easy job.
For the last few years she’s worked all kinds of jobs, none of them easy. There isn’t much work to be had in this little town, halfway between nowhere and Toronto. We’re not quite cottage
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