Counting the jars, Aunty plucked the berries in cautiously. I watched in pure amazement as she hummed each dropping note with new perfection.
"Aunty? When can I sort the berries like you do?" I question with hopeless wonder.
"When I die my dear. You'll have seen it well enough by then." Aunty said after a pause, she then continued to sort the berries into each well counted jar.

That was the last time I saw Aunty. She was always very kind, very sweet. She wouldn't hurt a fly. And that isn't exaggerated, I've watched as she scooped flies into the fly nets and freed them out where they belong.
I don't think Aunty did any wrong. And then after her passing I worked up the courage and rode my bike all the way to her house like I used to. I never understood why she sorted the berries but I was determined to learn her ways, her jar counting and sense of humming the exact note of the drop. I was determined to figure it out.
When I got there, it hadn't changed a bit. I opened the door with the key in her rocks, and stepped inside cautiously as tho I may scare the person who wasn't there anymore.
Upon her counter sat the jars she counted. Immediately, I went out to where the mixed matched berries were and filled the baskets with them.
When each basket was filled I returned to the jars and began counting. My years of watching and listening, I knew how many I should have for all the berries to fit exactly.
"One at the time, two at the hour, three at the minute, four hands to show. Five at the trial, six to count slow, seven left over, eight to go." The right amount was there.
I dropped each berry in, letting them claim their rightful jar.
One at the time, a berry jumped and leap and I hummed the right key.
Two at the hour, this berry was from a sour bunch. It clearly knew which jar it belonged to.
Three at the minute, this berry was my favorite kind. Sometimes Aunty would let me steal one. It plopped into the jar with grace as another landed in my mouth like old times.
Four hands to show. As this berry fell in, I thought with a somber breath. Only two hands show up now.
Five at the trial, if any of the jars or berries had done wrong to Aunty, she would pass the berry or jar to me to put on a trial to see if it will be forgiven. The berry fell in as I knew forgiveness was always there.
Six to count slow, these berries were rare so Aunty would always pass the full jar to me to count them all and see if we got any more than the previous while.
Seven left over, Aunty would always have extra berries in this jar. Sometimes the exact were seven for each of us, so fourteen in total.
Eight to go, this jar always went to the kids next door so they could bake their mother a fresh pie for her birthday. There were eight of them, five now as three moved away after Aunty passed. They might enjoy the jar still.

I ate the left over berries and counted again. All of the jars filled correctly, and now I suppose I've taken over what Aunty would do. I don't plan on having any kids myself to pass this tradition to but I would like to have a young niece or nephew like Aunty had me. And they would ride their bike all the way to my house.

Yes, Aunty left me this house. This tradition. For as long as I can, I need to carry that.

I feel a soft breeze as I realize, Aunty was with me, and I've become my Aunty.
I'm now with me.

© ms160