Strawberry bushes are perennial plants. With good care, their return is promised for years—unless they contract a disease.
Once, strawberry bushes graced my home. Their sun-soaked leaves decorated the cement blocks lining my driveway. They whispered to me in delightful tones as a breeze hustled by. Their ripe, glossy fruit enchanted everyone—especially me.
I felt entranced by the strawberry bushes. They offered so much curiosity, joy, and sweetness. I would always wonder how they changed so quickly, shined so brightly, and smelled so sweetly.
I loved to sit beside the bushes, enjoying their company. When their flowers would transform from bud to berry, I would pluck a solitary fruit and slice it for a snack; the strawberries tingled with sugar.
Everything about the strawberry bushes was perfect, albeit one thing: they weren’t really mine.
Still, I cared for the strawberries. I ignored the signs of blackened roots. I plucked distorted leaves without a whisper of acknowledgment. The strawberries were healthy; I wouldn’t have it any other way.
One day, I learned of plans to abandon the place where the strawberry bushes thrived. I traced the stems of the strawberries, mournful. I was sad. Yet, I could not argue, and I left the blissful, strawberry-filled life behind.
Time passed, and the strawberry bushes fell to neglect. They withered from a lack of care; they shriveled from a lack of love. Their fruit would drop and bruise, shrouding a once emerald-gilded lawn with mold. I was no longer there to cradle them with affirmations, and I was no longer there to clean them of their disease.
Quickly, my love faded from the strawberry bushes’ memories—and, eventually, so did the bushes themselves.
The rest of the house, seemingly only drawing its liveliness from the rich red berries, began to decay as well. The cement bricks darkened; the windows became caked in a haze of dirt and dust. The house was a display of infection.
I didn’t realize the bushes were sick; I noticed the signs, but I didn’t understand. When I left, I knew the strawberry bushes and I would meet again—in one year or 10.
My assumptions were disproven when the bushes died.
Now, sitting at my window, I watch the rain. It’s pelting down my roof, shimmering through crevices and gutters. A cup of cold tea sits beside me; I hold no motivation to drink it. My knees indent my stomach as I press my legs against me, balled up. I wait for the thunder of water to dissipate. I miss the strawberries.
When it finally uplifts, I’m leaning back against a wooly yellow chair. My head is leaned back; my arm is perched above me. When my eyes flutter open, discomfort floods my senses before I gain the common sense to move my body. Grief follows, then hope. The newly clear skies inspire a plan.
An hour later, I tiptoe outside onto my saturated lawn. Water should soak my socks, but it doesn’t. My heart guides me as I step closer to the edge of my driveway.
The sun is shining, and the air is warming; it’s time.
Leaning down, I sweep away the top layers of grass and dirt from my lawn. Freshly watered, fertile soil stares up at me. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out a paper packet; it sounds like maracas as it moves. My hands are shaking from anticipation, and I rip it open; strawberry seeds scatter everywhere—across the driveway, onto my clothes, and across the patch of bare dirt.
Giggles tickle the air, and my eyes gain a once-lost shine as they sweep over the mess I’ve made: a beautiful disaster. I think of my future, where the seeds are replaced by lush, joyful strawberry bushes, and smile.
