Chopping Dewberries

Sometimes you have to cut away the bad to make room for new growth

         They sat on the porch swing, slowly rocking. Actually, they weren't sitting. They had stopped sitting a long time ago. They lounged. He with his back in the corner one leg on the swing bent at the knee, the other gently pushing. She leaning back against him, his arms encircling her, her head nestled on his shoulder against his neck. She loved the feel of his arms around her. She would ask from time to time if he wanted her to move, if he was still comfortable. He always chuckled planted a kiss on the top of her head and reassured her that he was quite comfortable and capable of telling her if she needed to move. She never understood how much he loved holding her this way. The feel of her against him, all of her within reach, the soft smell of her cologne dancing about him. He loved holding her. Silence like a quilt around them; comfortable, familiar. They could feel each other's thoughts.

"Cobbler was good," he said.
"Thank you," she knew he was going somewhere.
"Put up much jam?" So casual.
"You know I did," mock irritation, "Doubled."
"They were sweeter this year, bigger I think."
"Oh, really, I hadn't noticed."

A year ago he had forced her to chop away the dead cane to make way for new growth. She had balked because it was hot, painful work, but he had persisted. He was always making her chop dewberries. She was good at not digging up the painful. It was just easier to let the overgrowth take over. He was good at taking her through it, helping her chop.

"Yep, doubled the produce," he said with great satisfaction, modesty never his strong suit.
She sat up just enough to turn toward him, both smiling. Then she kissed away the "I told you so" that sat so temptingly on his lips.