We're an hour older

Ringed in caution tape

There’s a wild black raspberry bush that grows directly on our fence line, half in the safety of our yard and half on the vulnerable edge of the road, where the town’s great winged mowers can—and do—reach at least twice a summer. It first started growing here four years ago, seemingly springing from thin air. In reality, it has probably been in place for much longer, biding its time in the way that wild plants do—waiting for the right temperature, the right amount of rain, to be spared a slicing blade. At first it was just a few canes, just a few small berries. We roped it off with fluorescent tape and checked each day for ripe fruit. My boys, one a toddler and the other a baby, demanded to visit the plant twice a day, even if just to eat a single ripe berry.

When I first became a mother, it seemed like everyone I interacted with told me to “soak it up” and that it “goes too fast.” It was a baffling piece of advice to process, but I’ve tried all the same—in the sunshine on a beautiful day, in the hospital with a feverish boy, in a darkened room waiting for a child who won’t stop asking for “one more sip of water” while my precious free time dwindles away. I’m forever reminding myself to remember how fleeting this all is. To be grateful. But with that comes a sense of mourning, too. “Soak it up” becomes a lament, a place to dwell that is heart-achingly beautiful but also almost unbearably sad.

One night I paused to gather a handful of berries as I walked back from the barn, tempting fate with an impending severe thunderstorm (that arrived moments after I walked in the door). This year, the plant is more bountiful than ever. The canes are taller, more arching, and more laden with fruit than seems possible. The plant seems to have reached its peak. The caution tape that ringed the plant has long been lost. We have grown complacent, counting on the size and visibility of the plant and the memory of the town employee in the tractor.

As I picked berries I had a thought so contrary to my usual mode of thinking that I stood still beneath the swirling sky longer than was safe: if something happens to the canes now, it will be okay. We have been lucky.

The next morning, my boys, now 7 and 4, woke up excited to go to their beloved summer camp. All morning, they asked, “Is it time?” Not yet. “Now?” It was only 8 o’clock. The morning passed with excruciating slowness. Finally, when we arrived, promptly at 9 o’clock, my eldest said, before getting out of the car, “We're a whole hour older.”

I kissed them goodbye. I drove away. I felt the sadness creep in. When I picked them up from camp at 12:30, they would be 3.5 hours older than when I last saw them. And so would I. And on and on.

But god, what a beautiful day. What beautiful boys. I cannot put them into a time capsule. I cannot soak this up any more than I am. I am doing my very best. But I will go home and put the caution tape back around the berry bush. I will do what I can to have another summer of fruit, another hour in the sun with my kids, another walk beneath a dramatic sky with a palmful of berries.

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If we haven’t met…

I’m Holly! I’m a writer, living on a far away farm in rural New York. I live with my husband, our two boys, two dogs, two cats, three horses and a steadily growing flock of sheep. When I’m not taking care of the variety of living beings on our farm, I write fiction and work on

The Isolation Journals with Suleika Jaouad

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My great-grandparents were the first generation of our family to live on this farm, which was once a dairy farm. You can read the origin story here. About once a month I share scenes and photos from our life here that range from the difficult to the sublime.

Thank you for reading—it means more than you know.

Holly