blue
When I got off the plane in Buffalo, I realized that it hadn't changed in 20 years. I waxed a bit nostalgic for the little hill in front of our old apartment building where we used to go sledding and my sister, my dad and myself built snowmen; I smiled when I saw the Perry's Ice Cream vending machine in my hotel and I wondered if my mom had thrown away my old Wizard of Oz tshirt that I won in the Perry's Ice Cream art contest, a picture that even included the plant in the corner by the viewing window, complete with the caterpillar eating the leaves of the plant. And I missed the West Seneca library, the nights spent under the lamps with Dad, reading from the dictionary, learning to spell.
At breakfast this morning, when I was eating the fruit plate, I saw the blueberries- and I almost began to cry. I remembered when we were too poor to buy blueberries when we lived here, when even three dollars was big money. The only time I remember spending that kind of money on a single grocery item was when it was my sister's birthday and my dad bought the cheapest cake in the store (and yes, since it was a nasty coconut flavor, he was the one that ended up having to eat it all that week). Nothing to waste, not even gross coconut cake.
And yet here I was, back in Buffalo, not even thinking about the fact that I just dropped ten dollars for breakfast, complete with a fruit plate with blueberries. And I felt terribly guilty for a moment before I realized that that the Buffalo I remembered hadn't changed after all- but maybe I have.
And while my prediabetic self loves sweet fruit, I will always have a special place in my heart (and stomach) for blueberries, for precisely this.