by Geoff Gouveia

I learned awhile back that best way to turn her back into my grandmother is through her hands. She has glass mosaic hands. Fragile, the translucent skin reveals tracks of red and blue paned veins. If I give her something to touch, another part of her comes to life as the mosaics shuffle over the item. Sometimes it works though I have nothing to lose if it doesn’t as she’ll forget I even came. I bring pictures of my father and my brothers and our family and we look at them. She recognizes the faces but not the names. We don’t worry about particulars. She asks me if I remember visiting Spain with her and my brother (she’s now transitioned into telling something I would remember if I were the correct person in the story. I’m not, it’s my father.) I hold her hands and tell her I loved visiting Spain with her.

Last visit I helped her make Spanish rice. She laughed with me and told me how to make it. I followed along and didn’t care whether it tasted good or not. I liked the talking and watching her remember mastery. She didn’t move well but at least she moved and remembered why she was moving and kept moving. This week, I want to watch her hands prepare pomegranates from her yard with her breakfast.

When I was a young boy I visited my grandmother’s house every week. She cared for us when mom or pop had work. The three boys ran around the yard and played with each other. There were tears most of the time but my grandmother wouldn’t punish us unless someone was bleeding. The only times she became upset were the times in which we damaged her fruit.

The yard we played in sits between an aging wooden red fence that has always sagged. The yard extends on a diagonal line from the right, starting near a grapefruit tree on the side of the house. Next her roses lined the fence, taking their time adjacent to the old oak tree. Across the cement were the neighbors’ lemons that hung over  the fence near the orange tree. These all circled our favorite fruit-bearer as boys: the pomegranate tree. It was a tiny tree that provided seasonal sweetness from hundreds of little juice capsules contained in a hard shell.

My brothers and I learned to revere the purple-red fruit. We fought over who’d help my grandmother assemble the pomegranates when it was time for a snack. This season was our favorite; the tiny sweet pops of pomegranate bursts in our mouths. We took care not to stain the carpet or the bed sheets but although we were young, we were not naïve- any wasted fruit would be our loss.

I tell her in a loud voice I’m going to pick her a pomegranate from the backyard tree. She smiles, the word of the fruit alone helping to bring back the woman I knew. Walking past the orange tree and the rusting metal shed, the pomegranate tree sits tucked back in the corner. I cannot remember the last time I tasted one on the property as I peer upon the fruit adorned tree from afar. The leaves are yellow save for speckled greens throughout. Thin branches are visible in between the tired tree’s dying leaves. The tree slouches tired like someone trying to recall a word or a thought and it won’t come and the shoulders of the tree bend. Nearing the aged tree I begin to panic as my nostrils fill with a sour fermented warning. The red-purpleish pods reek.

The withered fruit that litters the ground, too heavy for the thin branches to hold up any longer, reveal spilt innards darkened by the passing days. I circle the tree, peering at each pod. I tiptoe around as to not startle the tree, fearing that one harsh brush against the fragile leaves will send all the remaining fruit crashing to the ground. Some of the pomegranates transformed into desaturated oblong pears. Others wilted like overgrown strawberries, mushy to the eye and malleable to the touch. Still others are false spheres, my hands close around the side that looks perfect and sinks into the other side, the thick juice oozing over my knuckles. Another pass around the tree confirms my suspicion that I am too late. With time the vivid pomegranates have mutated into muted, gray purple shriveled imposters.

The bag I brought out to carry the pomegranates with fills with wind instead as I turn to face the neighbors lemon tree. I told her I’d bring the fruit. And one by one the bag fills with premature lemons. The door back into her kitchen is a heavy wooden one that I push with my back. She remains seated, eating her breakfast.

Oh Hello! she says, startled. When did you get here?

Just a moment ago, I say with a kiss. I was picking lemons.

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