Mary, my cousin, and I used to do the tummy bump. We would hold hands, colliding our bellies, braids flying, squealing laughter through the summer air. We picked big voluptuous mulberries sweet and dark. We ate until our tongues were as purple as our hands. An interruption in our sated gluttony, a rarely seen uncle intruded on our revelry to dissect a mulberry, to expose the bright green worms that we had eaten.
Oh, the cruelties of life shown upon us. Satisfaction can be snatched in an instant, hidden under the good, doubt, nothing is as it seems. We of course did not think that. We screamed and made a large pitcher of Lime Kool-Aid, to counteract the bright green aliens, nestled in our abdomens, to banish them out. We rested our swollen bellies under the weeping willow tree.
It would be many years before I would eat a mulberry.
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