Dear Raspberries

I don’t mind sweating for you in the hot summer sun, swatting at those pesky gnats that gather around my head. Nor do I mind the achy back I sometimes get from stooping down too long looking for you or the bramble scratches on my arms and legs. I’d take a little discomfort any day over freezing in the aisles of a fluorescent-lit supermarket, finding you in those clear plastic-topped coffins, almost bereft of scent and juice, a far cry from your just-picked relatives. I don’t even mind sharing you in jams and cobblers, just as long as every so often I can have you all to myself—in a big bowl embellished only with a kiss of cold, thick cream.