In this fallen world there are few perfect things. Baseball pitchers and fans speak of the perfect game. Musicians are impressed by perfect pitch. Princess Buttercup had perfect breasts (according to Westley in the Princess Bride). I for one believe the most perfect thing in the world is a raspberry.

There are other nice things, great things: A peach, a sunrise. New shoes before school. A grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Love. All are fine, in their proper time.

Perfect however, is not subjective, not open for debate. Perfect is:

Perfect it’s a pint of bright red, newly rinsed berries in a bowl on the kitchen island. It is the way time and peace flow and crystallize as the berries disappear into my mouth and gently stain my fingers as my mom and I talk about nothing. I ask her “Why do people take drugs when raspberries make you feel this good?”

Perfect is the fluffy peek of meringue on top of a huge slice of fresh raspberry cream pie. The recipe is my grandmother’s. The pie is love and tradition and comfort and support and laughter and memory baked into physical form. It feeds my mouth and heart, and disappears to crumbs and memory and longing, the way all perfect things fill you and leave you empty with their transience. 

Perfect is the berry that grows from the gangly bush on the bank of the river I am kayaking. Hanging high over the curve of the water, almost literally tantalizing, but reachable by the mouth of a person in a low boat willing to paddle against a current. It explodes juicily in my mouth, and my friends and I continue downstream under the shade of the trees, looking for more berries, or more moments like this one.