I’ve written about blackberries more times than I can count. They’re an invasive species. They prick you and draw blood. They grow and grow, unstoppable.
And yet, I love them anyway. Not just because they produce delicious fruit, but because they are what they are—resilient, monstrous, prickly. I used them as a positive metaphor once and was told the metaphor didn’t work. I’m thinking about getting a tattoo of a blackberry bush on my forearm.
Anyway, here’s a drabble.
(a.) from Latin hedera for “ivy”
Of, pertaining to, or like ivy.
Water wears away the stones, with time. It wears away many things, leaving space for others to grow. Seeds sweep in on the wind, taking root in the crevices.
At first, the growth is beautiful; they gather outside to watch it bloom, watch it creep up along the bricks, stretching tendrils further until they grasp the ramparts. Eventually, it becomes a nuisance. It must be torn down, burned, utterly destroyed lest it destroy their home.
But seeds are so small, so hard to destroy. It comes back year after year, plunging into new spaces, fracturing the structure from the inside.