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—
I had an argument with all my words today.
For they would not stay
in their delightfully organized spots.
Seems, if you will,
they wanted to jump around and play,
ignoring the sense of my color coded dots.
I must admit I lost my patience, yelling,
“We will never accomplish
anything useful if you play
In this most rambunctious way.”
To this, they in unison whined,
“Why must we be serious all the damn time?”
And to that, I could not provide argument.
Thus, we decided to play
And took a vacation today.
I Words scattered across the page. Words littering the soul.
All these words Piled upon the table, A hoarder’s table of words.
Words left unsaid, Unwritten, A bouquet of words Wilting in the heart and mind.
Words twisted in contortionist meaning Of manipulations, Weaponized for destruction, Yet leaving victims living. II Words of things that can’t be said. Words of things that should have been. Words of things we could not speak out of fears too deep. Words of things we could not begin to understand Of ourselves, of each other. Words of things we wanted so to believe Of others, of the world. Words of hope Of love Of charity Of peace. Words of what we have lost. Words of what we may never again find. III Words, words, words Slipping through the fingers Like water in a desert, Dripping away, evaporating Before they can be used.
Words, words, words Twisting round the wrists, Writhing up the arms, Biting the face and neck, Killing before they can be used.
Words, words, words Left unread by faded ink, Left unwritten by a tired mind, Left unsaid by a fear filled mouth.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 