The next year I was thrilled to see the first little flower begin to bloom I watched it every day, until I could pick it, and bring it inside. I didn't eat it, just left it on the counter, a symbol for the bounty that I knew was bound to come behind. The plant produced seven berries in all, not even enough for a single pie. The branches grew long and untamed, dancing in the wind so much that even our doorbell camera stopped to notice. I thought, "that's not what I expect of you", as I watched them out the window. Then one day I realized that I speak to myself the way I talk to the blackberry bush-harsh and unforgiving, rigid and unrelenting Pt2