I was 7-8 years old. The family - minus our Dad working back in the city - was staying in a cabin in the Catskill Mountains of New York state on an isolated property that belonged to my grandpa. Late-July. Our Mom sent me and my sisters out to pick berries. Green plants up the hill from the cabin were loaded with raspberries and blackberries. We brought back a full bucket so our Mom could make pies for an upcoming extended family gathering.

The three of us kids sat at a wooden table; sunlight splashing golden through the cabin window. Mom scooped luminous berries out of the bucket and into cereal bowls then set a bowl and a spoon in front of each of us. She poured cream (purchased from the farm down the road) out of a small metal pitcher over the berries. I remember staring at the berries glowing in the cream, the sun shining in; it was all too magical to eat!

I recount this memory to my Mom now and then. She's now 91, securely wrapped in dementia but still loves to hear the story.