The strawberries

A trip down memory lane to a brief but powerful long-ago epiphany

We are sitting around the table: my parents, my two older siblings and I. My brother has possession of the bowl of strawberries, which means that it may or may not be heard from again. Judging by the way he keeps shoveling them onto his plate, I suspect it’s probably going to be Choice B.

Not that I care, really, one way or another. I hate strawberries. Still, it’s a golden opportunity to make a sarcastic remark about his unbridled gluttony, a subject that has made for some pretty easy shots since he turned 12 and his growth spurt kicked into high gear. He is constantly hungry, and constantly eating. Who could resist such low-hanging fruit?

As I watch the mound of strawberries pile up on his plate, my mouth curves into a mean smile.

“You gonna climb that or eat it, hog?” I blurt out finally. Then I sit back with my arms folded, gloating. Got ‘im.

He gives a small guilty motion and looks at me down the table. The whole world freezes around his eyes, large and blue and stunned.