Little Black Berries

By Angell Lopez / Spring 2026

Quiet moments often flood my mind with memories. It’s hard for me to stay still in a quiet area; my leg begins to shake, fingers begin to twitch, my nails begin to dig into my calluses, and eventually, my mind begins to wander. Sometimes I think of my past, the memories that I remember the most with people with whom I spent the most time. This one peculiar memory, however, seems to be burned into my mind, like a cow’s branding; it’s my brain’s permanent identification with happiness. Despite how simple it might seem to other people, joy starts to caress my entire body as the memory begins to take place throughout my reality, blurring everything in and out as I lose track of time. I hold this dearly with my heart, my joy, this feeling, and it comforts me deeply.

I see my mother towering over me as we walk along the sidewalk. This time, she did not seem so exhausted, wearing a white dress decorated with impressionist-painted sunflowers instead of her black work uniform, visibly stained with spots of food and oil. I smell the fresh air around me and listen to the silence around us. To the left of us are small, yet cozy-looking houses lined with fruit trees and sweet flowers, but bordered with old, jarring fences that did not seem to get along with the scenery. But I look up at the sky, remembering the time when I was with my friend not too long ago. I didn’t care about the dust on the floor, or the fact that our apartment complex is riddled with silverfish and roaches; we lay on the grotesque floor and stared up, focusing on the sky rather than the salmon-colored walls that surrounded our view. Here I am, doing the same thing with my mother. The clouds are of pure white cotton, and the bright sun gently toasts our already brown skin. Peering at the sky, I marvel at the bright blue staring right back into our eyes, and so did she, forgetting the struggles weighing her down. I see the sun highlight the folds under her eyes, deep and dark, and yet I’m happily thinking that she’s able to pick me up today. Without the usual cars speeding down the neighborhood road, we walk hand in hand with a nice breeze moving across our faces.

She looks over to me and says in Spanish, “Qué hiciste hoy, mi gordito?”

I, not paying attention to anything that we did today, said: “Yo... no sabo!” Thinking to myself, I asked if I said that correctly. But I didn’t care enough to think deeply about it.

“Ay mijo.. ¿Y por qué vas a la escuela entonces?” she says. I respond again, genuinely not understanding why I go to school, in a sing-songy voice with a wide smile across my face, “No sabo!”

We start to cross the street that cuts across the neighborhood, the wind seeming to have died down a bit, and my mother spots a peculiar tree hanging to the side of one of the dull fences. We begin to go under it, and I begin to see little bits of little black berries dangling from its branches. I look at my mother with a sort of questionable expression, as I’ve never seen such a fruit before. However, she smiles gently at me and picks one and pops it into my mouth.

I feel joy starting to spur within my body as I chew. My eyes widen in surprise, as with each bite, a sweet nectar began to brace my tongue, jumping from taste bud to taste bud. Breaking the silence, I said “¡Esta muy bueno!” with my broken accent. The wind began to hit my face again, as I saw my mother’s smile grow warmer. That same smile, now etched into my brain, comforted my soul. That same smile, now chewing the same fruit that I was, then said, “Si, esta bueno mijo,” reassuring what I had thought. “Es una fruta que teníamos en México”, she says, not knowing that she grew fruit trees back at her hometown. We both eat another fruit, wearing the same smile. At this moment, that smile is warmer than the bright sun hitting me. My soul ablaze with happiness, I walk back home with a new, warming feeling of contentment. That same contentment I always feel with my mother nowadays, something that I knew I would always remember forever to my grave.

Once that singular memory is over, and my eyes adjust back to reality, the joy begins to flee. I look at my computer and wonder what happened to make everything go by so quickly. Like a stone, I stay still for a brief moment with a somber expression. But I remember, I realize how hard my parents had it, and despite everything, they shared their bits of free time to make us happy. Despite all the arguments, the pain, the sorrow, the nuisances, they crawled so we could run. That alone fills my heart and soul with happiness, and my soul pushes onward.