A small boy on a gigantic blue bicycle rush past us. I spot him from the woods, where my two younger cousins and I have been sent to fill buckets with cloudberries – summers have become laboursome, after we became adults. The boy’s legs are stretched, and his toes strain to push the weight of the pedals. He cruises carefree through the Finnish countryside along the dirt road. His headphones are old and his shirt too big. The bike belongs to the boy’s grandfather, who doesn’t know it’s been missing all day. The same goes for his shirt and his headphones – they play Strawberry Fields Forever by The Beatles which he’s listening to for the first time. He imagines the green meadows to be giant strawberry fields emitting sweet aromas, decorating the summer air. When he has passed and disappeared behind the curb, I turn to my bucket, which has tipped over, and cloudberries lie spread in the heather. The pling of the bicycle bell rings in the distance, and the boy swooshes past us again in the opposite direction. My cousins ask what I’m looking at and I explain about the boy on the gigantic blue bicycle. And although they can’t see him, they close their eyes and imagine how the air smelt of strawberries on that summer’s day when I discovered The Beatles for the first time. How I was too short to fully reach the pedals. They imagine our grandfather’s face and how it wrinkled with awe when he noticed the bike missing. I explain his face, because they were too young to remember how it used to wrinkle with awe at every cheeky mishap.