In George's Garden there are berries. Raspberries and blueberries, two different kinds I think. There are roses and hydrangeas and a number of other plants that border the circular plot of earth in my in-law's backyard that is named after their first grandchild. But it is the raspberries and the blueberries that make my heart ache each time I find myself there.
So easily I can conjure up images of Clio and her cousins -maybe one day a living sibling too- clamoring around the garden snatching blueberries and gingerly maneuvering around thorns to capture tart raspberries. I see blue mouths and red stains. I smell dirt-stained knees and I hear the gaggle of laughter bubbling up from tiny mouths.
It is the blueberries and raspberries that make my heart ache.
Because I so much would like to be able to see there with the rest of them a little tow-headed boy with his father's eyes and his mother's toothy grin, leading the charge into the clearing of grass with blueberries and raspberries in hand.
But instead I see a ghost roaming in and out of the periphery of my vision and I wonder how long it will take before even that is gone.
