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George Henry Hall: A Pomegranate, Siena  The fruit which sits on the table, in front of me, is bright red, almost as if filled with rage. We were taught how to spell it in elementary school. It's a pomegranate- not a traditionally easy fruit to eat. In fact, I cannot seem to recall when I had it last. My most profound memories of the vermillion fruit is my grandmother sitting on the big chair with a knife in her hand. She would cut the pomegranate in the middle and use her fingers to take out all the seeds. Her nails would taint a shade darker than black and I would realize that a person can love you to the brink of self-ruination.  The cutting and dismembering of the pomegranate was a herculean task reserved for my grandmother in our house. It was a fruit that took patience and effort to peel. Not even my father would go near it. There were times where I'd silently watch her make tea in the evenings. We wouldn't speak a lot to each other in those moments but she would make