NOTE: The photo shows my grandmother, Naomi Kimball Harris, as a child; she’s standing next to her beloved mulberry tree. I’m hoping to submit this piece to the Poetica Grandmatica anthology this year since it’s a publication dedicated to works by and about grandmothers. Please let me know if you have any suggestions for it!
The mulberry tree in back of my grandmother Naomi’s childhood home meant many things to her: a shady place to read her favorite Tarzan books; a supplier of plump white berries to supplement her scanty Depression rations; a source of sturdy branches that could, with a bit of imagination, easily become horses. (She spent many a happy hour bouncing frantically on her branch, racing against the brothers bouncing frantically on theirs. Her branch was, of course, invariably the winner.)
She was, therefore, surprised by the aghast expressions on the neighbor children’s faces when she waded…
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