I hold a handful of pomegranate seeds— I think of you all I know and do not know--
A bushel of grapefruits arrive at the front door. The next day, a bushel of oranges followed by a bushel of pomegranates, like tribute foretelling the arrival of some dignitary or prince. Every summer, the bushels foreshadowed your visits-- The grapefruits and oranges for my mother, who loved all citrus, a luxury she didn’t have growing up in West Virginia. The pomegranates for me-- You knew I loved them. Why did the bushels and the visits stop after the summer I turned six?
These seeds I hold, ready to throw into today’s salad, are too few—
I remember you— showing me how to open a pomegranate; teaching me to count in Greek; moving a stepstool to the counter so I could climb and see how to make Greek yogurt from scratch, when you saw my nose wrinkle at the smell, telling me, “You will like it because you Greek,” your accent as thick and heavy as the clabbered milk in the yogurt glasses.
The last summer you came to visit— A train ride to Florida to stay the whole summer with you and Aunt Mae. I wanted the top bunk in the train car. You tucked me into the lower one saying, “You fall here. No hurt. You fall from up there, you hurt,” before hefting yourself into the top bunk. You said you’d teach me to swim. “Everybody in Greece swim. I teach you. You learn easy because—” you paused, waiting-- for my six-year-old excitement to finish, “I’m Greek!” You tousled my hair then loaded our things in the car.
Everything to be tried, to be learned, to be shown required our liturgical call and response: you would start, “You will like because—" and I would finish, “I’m Greek.”
Teaching me to swim didn’t work out too well— You told me to move my arms and legs fast, then threw me into the ocean. Each time I flailed and sank. Each time you pulled me up, “You okay. You learn.” The third or fourth throw, You pulled me up And said, “Enough today. But you learn because—” And despite my fearful sobbing, I finished, “I’m Greek,” as I wrapped my arms around your neck. We did not have time. I never learned.
Sirens, red lights, dark outside, Aunt Mae crying. The hospital cold, noisy. Mae on the phone. Mommy coming on the train.
You lived. Came home. Peeled me a pomegranate.
Mom and I left on the train. The last time I saw you, Uncle Pete, though you did not die until three months after my high school graduation, an obituary found on the internet tells me so. But the bushels, the visits, the phone calls stopped the summer I turned six. I never knew why. I will never know now.
Fifty-nine years after that summer with you, I stand holding a handful of pomegranate seeds, shining their ruby glow. Decades since last I split open a pomegranate. Too easy to buy in plastic tubs now. I need to finish this salad.
But I am stilled in the moment— The truth I now know— sleuthing through scraps of internet information after a DNA test-- What neither of us may have known that one summer, We were/ are father and daughter.
(I originally wrote this several years ago, and it was published in my book, “The Gift of Mercy.” I’m drafting a second part to this piece and decided to reblog this as a starter.)
I entered life, an accidental tourist.
My mother’s body served an eviction notice,
but I ignored it and burrowed deeper
into placental warmth.
My twin, however, weaker,
entered the world a clotted, bloody,
gelatinous mess on the white tile
of a bathroom floor.
The doctor told the man,
who wasn’t really my father
but thought himself to be,
there was still a heartbeat,
still a baby left.
I felt the absence of my twin,
the lack of another’s heart
beating a rhythm to match my own,
racing toward emergence, light, life, breath.
A ghost like memory I carried with me
always— even when I, who survived
by claiming squatter’s right
to my mother’s uterus
as it tried to evict me
and who had never been told
of my twin’s existence, would
turn in childhood play and talk
to my twin sister.
My mother asking to whom I talked
and I answering in innocence—my twin sister.
Now, I recognize my mother’s twisting face
of guilt as she turned from my childhood answer:
the long walk from the restaurant’s apartment
to the stores on Broadway to buy school
supplies; the washing down of the restaurant
walls over and over again; the bed rest the doctor
said she needed when she was spotting, her body
threatening to throw out the babies she carried, ignored—
A barren tree stands tall and strong across the street. I see it weekly on days I volunteer. It’s naked limbs waving on windy days. High up, in the crux where two branches meet, sits a large, empty nest. Too large for small Avian visitors. Not a home for sparrows or finches, surely. Built by crows or grackles or large jays, perhaps-- The nest sits, stable and empty, as if a child took a large dark brown Sharpie and drew a circular blob when asked to draw a bird’s nest on a page featuring an outline of a tree.
Its emptiness captures me. Mirrors me. It stood, providing shelter for the young growing there. Now, abandoned by the young it once sheltered, the adult birds, no longer of use, have abandoned it as well-- Each having traveled on their way. Yet the nest survives-- Empty, except for the glue of memory attaching it to the tree-- As I am emptied of the young I once sheltered.
The words, the words-- They rattle in my head, louder than the tail of a snake, louder than the breaking of stacked billiard balls, louder than the concussing jack hammer on a city street-- too much noise to hear distinctly what must be written, what must be said, screamed into the foul fiery smoke-filled air
One word, one. Just one, larger than the others, louder— settles against my skin, a lash of fiery noise, burning, burning deep-- betrayal-- burning away tiny scars of other betrayals a lifetime ago
This wildfire of betrayal burns away soul held beliefs of common good.
It has begun. They will come for us tonight. Darkness their friend. The cloak of night hides their evil, so they believe. We know they will place us in one of the camps. We are of no use to them. Old dissenters of questionable things, the light which frightens them. We fought long and hard, each in her own way.
Now, it is time for you, all my daughters, to stop. Your survival is the only way we win. Survive. Do not give up. Fight now by surviving. If you do not survive, there is no hope for a future.
I beseech you all to remember: Use only the last name I paid to have bleached for you. Pretend to forget your heritage now, for if pride lets you not pretend, you will not survive, and your heritage dies with you. Wear the gold cross on the gold chain as proof you believe as they do. Learn and recite their prayers, for God does not care. Cover your skin in the sun, it cannot turn too dark. Pass for them if you at all can. If you cannot, lower your eyes and hide defiance within the coverage of pretend obedience. Bite your tongue silent so you may make your way forward. Though I cannot travel with you (I will not live long enough to see the return), above all, remember all roads lead to Delaware.
Yet, I will be there with you when you arrive and breathe in freedom.
Hidden behind two different sized levels, I saw it.
And the ache of my bones reared up — electric, sharp edged-- I shrank in the ugly face of its brutality.
Yes, I admit— I shrank down 50 years or so more or less— a thirteen-year-old, helpless, swimming in a stuttering stupor, nose barely above water, in the wake of this awakened ache in my bones-- the sight of a metal yardstick like the one my drunken mother tried to break over my back as she had her wooden one.
And I, after all these years, I still carry that ache, hidden, in the marrow of my bones
To participate in the Ragtag Daily Prompt, create a Pingback to your post, or copy and paste the link to your post into the comments. And while you’re there, why not check out some of the other posts too!
Showcasing the best of short films and screenplays from the LGBTQ+ community. Screenplay Winner every single month performed by professional actors. Film Festival occurs 21 times a year!
Hearing The Mermaids Sing 