Blueberries for Sal

What do bears and Little Sal share? Love of blueberries, of course. Not just any blueberries, Blueberry Hill blueberries. Gathered with keen eyes and patient hands. First, Sal and Mother must climb up, up into rocky terrain. Here, between frozen boulders, we spot softness, billowing in sunlight. Softness, clothing itself with tiny, tiny leaves, and its jewelry – royal-blue pearls. Pop, pop, pop. Pearls, which freckle the field, awakening that dead terrain.

They don’t last long, these pearls. For Sal is hungry. Sal is also forgetful of her tin bucket, a bucket to collect berries, berries to store for winter. But who can think of winter when summer’s candy is all around? Mother Bear, that's who. She thinks long and hard about winter, journeying up, up that rocky terrain. Instructing Little Bear to “eat lots of berries.” And he does just that.  

There are two sides of Blueberry Hill. Dark and light. Ink exemplifies this polarity. Mother Bear and Little Bear wander through home – big, burly, ink. Mother and Sal wander through wilderness – small, fragile, page space. 

Yet, there is a connection. It migrates through that tangled thicket. Over towering pines, across pebbly paths. Tethering those two sides of Blueberry Hill. The string of motherhood. Filling jars and filling bellies, this is motherhood. Teaching and beckoning, this is motherhood. Patience and patience once more, this is motherhood. A flame, wild and deep, unceasing in her stomach when a child is lost. Finding them again, this is motherhood. 

And as the two part ways, down the sides of Blueberry Hill, that string follows still. Following, until they take their final rest. But until that day, Mother will continue to climb up, up into rocky terrain, picking blueberries for Sal.