260: Strawberry Field

I have had a bad day, you say.

I see, he says. His rocking chair is worn, his wrinkled fingers permanently locked around the armrests. Give me your bad day. I will give you another.

You sit next to him.

I will give you a strawberry field. You walk across it barefoot, and the black tarp burns your feet. There are droplets of water on your legs after you waded into the pool behind the house to collect a rubber duck. The droplets dry quickly.

In a ditch between two ridges, you kneel. You have a bowl in your hands. You are meant to fill it. It looks like the wide-brimmed straw hat you are wearing, wider than it is deep, and you begin to pick. One in the bowl, one in your mouth. You flick ants and little black beetles off when you come across them.

You kneel there for a long time. You abandoned your t-shirt by the pool, and you can feel your shoulders and back burning. Tomorrow you will be red, hot to the touch, and peeling. You will be unable to sleep on your back. Your mother will scold you. But that is tomorrow's regret. Today, you are picking strawberries, one in the bowl, one in your mouth, watched by none but the birds.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: All poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been viewed and commented on by our editors. Ultimately, however, we believe that it is the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions made by the editors, and therefore take no responsibility for the final product.