A late night call. We set aside some time to talk and go through what we have to say. It’s quite a lot. So much emotion too. But we must keep it real. We play with words and come up with ideas on how to present ourselves, what we would need to make way in this world, we touch upon this silly comment a husband made about how we are all strawberries. Still, we mustn’t get distracted, so we analyse our options, map the words, combine them and come up with… whatever… those strawberries are luscious. We can almost taste them, smell them. They are of all shapes, colours… Some are dressed with cream, like the ones they serve at Wimbledon in the summer. Others are nicely lined in a beautiful tart. All are picked by hand. Specially cared for. Like each and every one of us.
There was a time “Strawberry pickers” was used to describe migrant seasonal workers (mainly Romanians). Not the best perception, you’ll tell us. But if you think of the meticulous, hard work that goes into actually doing this job and particularly the joy anyone we know would have when enjoying a punnet of fresh strawberries , we wouldn’t be too upset to be associated with the fruit.
So here we are. Strawberries. Each with our own story and each fulfilling a purpose.
To the enjoyment of us all.
Thanks for joining us!
If you keep my secret, this strawberry is yours. — Tsugumi Ohba