Dusty blueberries in January have a sour burn, have traveled around 6,445.25 miles, and make you slightly nostalgic.
You remember pulling down clumps into your hand like grapes last September as Rachel told you about their silent brother.
You remember walking to your neighbor's two bushes most mornings to collect toppings for your oatmeal.
You remember the mothers that fill small glass containers for toddlers who like to suck on the white insides.
You remember they had softer skin in the wild, had more juice, and the sweetness was forever.
You consider the truck journeying up from Chile, skin hardening through time zones, orchard home blurred to memory.
You wonder if they are shipped as green and red babies, and how exactly they ripen. Is there sunshine in the truck?
How many Chileans are snacking on blueberries tonight?
You bet they are sweeter, you bet the laughter falls into hands like clumps.