Old lobster traps piled in the backyard near the bearberry. Mold had marked the wood blue-green, the color of bay tide at dusk. After a rainstorm I would lay with my mouth open and wait for droplets to fall from the round berries. Sometimes bubbles enclosed the berries, as if water could hunger. I hated when droplets drummed my teeth but loved when bubbles splashed my tongue like cool lozenges.
Coleman stood next to me. He opened a brown paper bag, folded down the top, and collected bearberry leaves for my sister. It was the nicest thing he ever did.
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