— after September 11, 2001
I selected the blueberries from the blue bowl left uncovered overnight in the refrigerator. I felt the blueberries in the palm of my hand. They were like tiny eggs, but not like eggs. Some were soft and caved in, not quite rotten — like old men and women. For a moment before releasing them, I wondered if the blueberries knew about transformation. In the refrigerator, they had been safe. I scattered the blueberries over my cereal. They fell into the milk, turning it blue like breast milk, and the blueberries became small blue breasts. Outside, the sky was blue, and sugar turned red in maple leaves that soon would be brown as the stem hole of a blueberry. I rolled the sweet blueberries from palm to fingertips and, one at a time, they disappeared.
