I just picked a raspberry from my babysitter’s bushes. We walked the length of an overstretched dirt road with buckets, the four of us children. We were on a peacock farm with these animals walking liberally around us. I felt a strong oddity to go over and pluck out one of the feathers. The emerald green and turquoise were candy to my adolescent eyes. As we crammed our buckets with berries our fingers stained with cavernous scarlet juices.
I just couldn’t ignore the peacocks. I was forever told if I let the feather descend out on its own, I could keep it. I trudged my feet over to the peacock and stared at him.
“Peacock, your colors are so stunning that I wish you were the sun that I could gaze at everyday. I can see why they picked a turkey for thanksgiving and not you peacock…no not you Mr. Peacock. You are too beautiful to sit lifeless on a holiday. So with all my curiosity and admiration, I want you to forgive me as I do this.”
I slowly stirred my modest raspberry discolored fingers closer and yanked out a feather. Grinning like I was saying cheese, I was overcome with elation. Until I looked behind me and saw my babysitter, the mean elderly witch. She took the peacock feather and I felt my hand shed tears as it left. Now I felt irritated even though I broke the rules. So I took my pail of raspberries and put every last one in the pockets of my babysitters white Capri pants. I declared my feather back and walked down her narrow road unconscious to the heated threats being shouted out behind me. Mom could handle that soon after I was sure…