Irish cranberries grew from the craggy bluffs, where the sea infused its answers into one little girl. She dared to brave death for a taste of life. She knew this bush grew just for her because anyone else was either too tall or too short, afraid or blase about this special bush. Year after year, it bared fruit and each year the little girl’s voice grew. It took her to places she always dreamt of going. Her mother said, “girl, it’s good to dream, but you must wake up sometime.” She didn’t want to. This girl grew into a woman who sang about war and PTSD, self sabotaged relationships, and an unreconcilable lingering puppy love that an old flame, who could string you along and you’d love to hate him for. But now, after forty-six years, she’s come back to that cranberry bush on her childhood craggy bluff. She’s now the thing that sustained her, nestled away for the next special person to taste and crave by the sea. She’s home now, though she never really left.
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