Knee High

The corn piled up at the corner stand looks like it’s smiling at you, its just-off-white teeth in juicy, deliberate rows as if to prove the existence of a higher power with a passion for vegetable design. “A good crop is knee high by the 4th of July,” the man winks as he slips you an extra cob outside the range of your mother’s watchful eye. You hold it gingerly, like a baby, shielding it from the hot summer air—this holiday, this country, nothing could mean as much to you in this exact moment as what’s in your arms, the honeysuckle kissing your ankles, the fresh blueberries you’re not allowed to eat in the car for fear of stains.