The leaf was no bigger than my thumbnail, smooth on top, fuzzy underneath. I hesitated—not because I was afraid, but because no one had ever asked me to taste a bush before. In my world, bushes were for hiding behind, not for eating. But my mother's eyes were patient, green like the leaf itself, and so I opened my mouth.

Once, when I was thirteen, I brought a friend home. She saw me pluck a leaf from the bush and chew it thoughtfully. "What are you doing?" she asked, horrified. "That could be poisonous."

My friend looked at me like I was feral. But my mother came out with a glass of lemonade and offered the girl a leaf. "Try it," she said softly. "It tastes like being alive."

Years later, after my mother had moved to a smaller apartment and the old house was sold, I drove back to see what remained. The bush was still there—more tangled than ever, half-choked by ivy, but alive. I knelt in the damp grass, just as she had taught me, and plucked a single leaf.

The girl declined. But I understood. Not everyone gets to taste a mother's bush. Not everyone has a mother who shows them that the wild, overlooked things are often the most worth savoring.

"Go on," she said, plucking a single leaf and holding it to my lips. "It won't bite."