A blueberry bush for a tombstone would have been more appropriate for Mary
than the silent, somber slab that sits above the place where her head must lie.
Something catches inside me when I stop to imagine her there, suffocating under acres
of thick brown dirt--the only other covering for her bones, some thin, brown grass.
I prefer to remember her as she was, kneeling gently beside me,
picking wild blueberries on the path that led to the dock
where her small boat roosted and rocked with the tides.
Always, she showed me that it was best to eat the bluest berries
right then and there, saving the sour globes
for the pancakes and muffins we would bake together later,
silently telling me it was alright to take what we want
and protect ourselves from the rest.