Strawberries

Strawberry season looms large in the northern Midwest. Strawberries come on fast and head out just as quickly; you blink, you miss them. While they are here, their soft curves and sweet juices whisper assurances of hot nights and desserts cooled in a pool of icy cream.

Promise is so enticing because it isn’t a guarantee. Unfulfilled potential lurks around the edges of expectation. Life’s too short to cooperate. Vows are sometimes no more than wishes.

One year, the disappointment started with the strawberries. More accurately, it started with the unending spring rain, which bloated the red jewels, diluting their flavor and stretching their cells, making bruising and rot an almost near certainty. They simply tasted average, indistinguishable from the grocery store berries of winter. All the hopes we thrust upon the strawberries’ gentle shoulders flitted away. It just wasn’t a great year for berries, and since strawberries are fickle and best enjoyed unadorned, there was little to do. Nothing to hide behind: strawberries’ charms are also their downfall.