The Pomegranate

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 sure that the warmth of her cup reached me. 

When I was even younger, she told me stories about how the ocean ate the stars or how the moon loved the sun from afar. They taught me that love was stronger than angry fruits and that the world will always have a place for me at the table, sometimes even pouring me tea. My love for her never ended when she did. Rather it reached the tips of the universe, grazing over every branch and every tree and every flower.  

These days when I look in the mirror, a part of her smiles back and tells me to not be scared of perishable fruits. Maybe it's time to stain my hands black.