While my hands gathered berries, thoughts circled around Leyont's words. "Better to be one who stumbled and rose..." Yes, that's about me. Stumbled, wounding Mother with words, but now going to correct the deed. In that was strength—not in avoiding falls, but in the ability to stand up.
Each step along the winding path became a physical and spiritual journey at once. In each gathered fruit, I saw not just tartness—a whole universe of doubts, defeats, and faith in the ability to rise and grow. The thick air, imbued with the scent of moss and earth, was native and distant, like old men's stories by the fire on quiet nights.
The sun was preparing to yield to soft twilight when I, filled with quiet satisfaction, took the last step to complete the path. Each berry in the pouch said: life, like mountains, is full of contradictions. Standing on the threshold of return, I realized—the path of redemption isn't just gathering berries or correcting mistakes, but constant striving for honesty with oneself.
Perhaps this almost childish hope gives strength to go further, even when legs buckle and the soul bears a weight comparable to mountains. Such striving, no matter how bitter the falls seem, turns into a source of strength.
Berries fall into the pouch with the weight of conscience—taut, almost black drops of pre-storm night, bursting under fingers, leaving a tart trace. The pouch fills slowly, each berry rustles with a homey sound: here I am, the great gatherer of nature's gifts, the good son from a folk tale. Only tales lie even when they tell the truth.
The sun clings to the horizon's edge like a weary traveler, painting the sky in ripe blueberry colors. Need to hurry to the summit before shadows swallow the path. Each berry—a little messenger of fate, each moment reminds how time slips through fingers. Berries barely enough for a pie, but Mom will smile that special smile saying: "Not entirely useless, my boy." Nature, as always, gives the best to those ready to climb higher.