We drove farther, to a place my mother remembered because it has been important to her for years - a pick-your-own blueberry farm. She knew the roads to take to find it. (Years of eating blueberries seem to have done wonders for her memory.) The farm was still there, in high season when we arrived, the bushes loaded with fruit. The morning temperature was 70-something, with no humidity, soft sunshine and a mild breeze. Nothing gold can stay, but some things stay longer than others.
Rose is not as mobile as she once was, not as strong-willed as she once was, not as adamant about where people in her entourage picked berries. She sat in the car while I picked, and she smiled each time I looked up and waved from the bushes. I had never thought of my mother as serene until that moment. Nothing gold can stay, but some things stay longer than others.
