Their father would take them into the woods to pick berries. When their bushels were full, they would leave the cool woods and hike back in the warm sunshine through meadows of green and gold, back to the old house, where Grandma would prepare bowls of mixed berries swimming in cream and sugar.
Those vacations were an adventure because, as boys, the brothers lived in the city, and there were no hills or meadows or berry bushes there.
Now they’re grown men, and they live a thousand miles apart. Their lives are busy, and they seldom see each other anymore. Their grandmother is gone, and the old house in Pennsylvania was sold long ago.
But every year in July, they get together. They go to the local market and buy fresh berries. They bring them home, wash them and gently drop them into bowls. Then they pour cream over them and sprinkle them with sugar.
They sit down at the kitchen table, bring spoonfuls of berries to their lips and breathe them in. They open their mouths and close their eyes and let the sweetness and tartness of the berries dance on their tongues, and they go back to the hills of Pennsylvania, to their grandmother’s house, to a slower and simpler time.