September 7th is late in the season to pick blueberries, and for my mother who is 80, it is a long way down the hill to get to the blueberry bushes, and an even longer way up the hill to get back to the house where she can rest. They don't add up fast on these days when we are just harvesting one at a time, for the joy of being outside under the blue sky, with blue jays scolding their disapproval from nearby trees, and chickadees calling out perpetual encouragement.
It is all joy for me to have my mother with me, wispy white hair blowing in the wind, and slightly discouraged at how little she has in her bucket. Though I know she is tired from the sighs, she does not really want to leave, and yet she must. We take slow steps together and I cherish each one, and each blueberry too.