The Cherries

Three years ago, he slipped and met them for the first time. It wasn't even dark outside yet. An early summer evening, the end of June, the golden hour which makes everything mellow, including your heart and memories. He smiled, half closed his eyes, feeling the last warmth of the sun on his eyelids. He breathed in - for a split second - and fell on the ground.
He had never cut his head before, never mixed the gravel and blood on his temples. The warmth blended with cold terror. The bland taste of dirt with the sweetness of ripe cherries.