Death of a Pomegranate
Death of a Pomegranate
Wednesday morning-I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee, contemplating a pomegranate. We’ve got guests coming over tonight, and my room had to be cleaned last night. Clothes washed, fresh sheets put in, secret things removed from under the bed. It was late when I finally slept. Mother walks in. It’s early and she’s still in her nightgown. It’s an old one, blue and frayed around the edges. She’s washing her clothes too.
‘Morning’.
I find it annoying that I have to muster up the energy to be pleasant so soon. Mother will sometimes tell me I need to see the light of day when I get up, that I’m too surly in the morning. I’m too surly at night too.
‘Good morning’. I say, tearing into the fruit and not looking up. Her hair will be frizzed a bit from her sleep, something she won’t notice or won’t care. This has always bothered me.
‘Do you have classes today?’ Pouring herself coffee and sitting across from me. I look at her. I want to say that I wouldn’t be up if I didn’t but instead tell her that yes, I do. Chemistry and Physics. I remember that I got up every morning last week, classes or not. Sometimes it’s worth it to hold your tongue.
‘We’ve got company tonight so come home right after school.’
Looking at her blankly I nod. I’d rather not get into the topic of this particular company with her just yet.
I think she must know I don’t want to talk. I begin picking at my pomegranate.
The workers are coming tonight, those religious types that preach the gospel. They come to our houses, stay in our rooms and eat our food. Inspect our fruit at breakfast and sleep in our freshly cleaned house. Normally I’d book myself away for the evening but I know one of the workers and she’s attractive. Perhaps not so attractive as lovely, and perhaps not so lovely as poised. Some might call it peaceful. I think I should have dinner with them. Appear with the family, for one evening at least. I’m not home very often anymore. Busy enough that I don’t seem to notice this.
‘Yeah. I know’.
Mother has poured herself coffee and is slowly drinking it-taking those little sips where you get more air than anything. Everyone calls it sipping, the noises, the little gestures you make when you’re drinking something that’s really hot but that’s just a diplomatic euphemism. I know all about those. Sweetening up the truth so it’s more palatable- veiling things inside. Still I find it gross. I avoid looking at her though she’s watching me. Inwardly I tense. Outside I just attack the fruit with more vengeance-picking apart all the little compartments and spilling out the seeds. They’re such a pale red, and I wonder what the appeal is. So little fruit for so much work. With mothers eyes on me I know I should get ready for class but I’m thinking about the worker. She’s going to ask her questions again. I imagine my own inspection.
‘How are you?’ Delicate little look on a delicate little face.
‘I’m fine, good.’
‘That’s good. You’re not too busy these days?’ Too busy for what, I wonder.
Then I wonder what to say to that; Yes, I’m busy but no, it’s fine.
‘Not really’ I say, shrugging a bit.
‘It’s nice when you can find a bit of peace in your life’.
I don’t respond. Sometimes it’s worth it to hold your tongue. She continues, launching quietly into a sermon in which she interrogates me.
‘Peace is a wonderful thing, and isn’t it an amazing gift that God has given us? He has so much he wants to offer us, all of us. Are you willing to share peace with God?’
Or something like that. I’m never satisfied when it’s over. She’s so quiet she doesn’t need to be subtle, doesn’t need to use diplomatic euphemisms. Just smiles a bit, very still as she surveys whatever is in your eyes. Here’s where I end up looking away, and where she waits for me to say something. Here some might produce a spiritual comment, talk about the miracle they’ve found in God, or the peace budding inside them. I remain quiet. I’m never satisfied when it’s over.
It’s always the same-picking into the compartments of my faith-foraging for the seeds. They never find very much, and I wonder what they see that they continue to search for more. Still, it’s never seemed to keep them from trying. I wonder if they’re so persistent with everyone. I’ve been told that faith can seem such a fickle thing, growing only in the right conditions. Like a pomegranate. Here its too cold, or there’s not enough water. There there’s not enough sunshine, not enough shelter. With beginning as precarious as these we must be careful to cultivate our seeds diligently. Water them daily with mixtures of submission and compassion, humility and love. Shelter them from doubt, and give them time to mature into beautiful life bearing fruit. It’s these conditions we must create, take time to nurture our seeds until they are fully ripe and then spread them. Or so I’m told.
I can never find it in me to tell them it’s not there, these conditions they’re looking for; I’m not like them. That I’m completely spiritually empty. Seedless. Less fruit than even a pomegranate.
‘Honey, it’s eight o’clock, don’t you think you should get going?’ She frowns at my ruined pomegranate, wasted fruit.
Yeah I think I should get going. I’m going to be late for my class. Chemistry, and I have a midterm to study for. I squish the seeds in my hand together-no longer interested in eating it. I’m not sure I ever was.
‘Okay, I’ll be home after three’ I say a bit vaguely, getting up to leave. I throw the pomegranate in the compost on my way out. I think I won’t be home for supper tonight.
Wednesday morning-I’m sitting at the kitchen table with coffee, contemplating a pomegranate. We’ve got guests coming over tonight, and my room had to be cleaned last night. Clothes washed, fresh sheets put in, secret things removed from under the bed. It was late when I finally slept. Mother walks in. It’s early and she’s still in her nightgown. It’s an old one, blue and frayed around the edges. She’s washing her clothes too.
‘Morning’.
I find it annoying that I have to muster up the energy to be pleasant so soon. Mother will sometimes tell me I need to see the light of day when I get up, that I’m too surly in the morning. I’m too surly at night too.
‘Good morning’. I say, tearing into the fruit and not looking up. Her hair will be frizzed a bit from her sleep, something she won’t notice or won’t care. This has always bothered me.
‘Do you have classes today?’ Pouring herself coffee and sitting across from me. I look at her. I want to say that I wouldn’t be up if I didn’t but instead tell her that yes, I do. Chemistry and Physics. I remember that I got up every morning last week, classes or not. Sometimes it’s worth it to hold your tongue.
‘We’ve got company tonight so come home right after school.’
Looking at her blankly I nod. I’d rather not get into the topic of this particular company with her just yet.
I think she must know I don’t want to talk. I begin picking at my pomegranate.
The workers are coming tonight, those religious types that preach the gospel. They come to our houses, stay in our rooms and eat our food. Inspect our fruit at breakfast and sleep in our freshly cleaned house. Normally I’d book myself away for the evening but I know one of the workers and she’s attractive. Perhaps not so attractive as lovely, and perhaps not so lovely as poised. Some might call it peaceful. I think I should have dinner with them. Appear with the family, for one evening at least. I’m not home very often anymore. Busy enough that I don’t seem to notice this.
‘Yeah. I know’.
Mother has poured herself coffee and is slowly drinking it-taking those little sips where you get more air than anything. Everyone calls it sipping, the noises, the little gestures you make when you’re drinking something that’s really hot but that’s just a diplomatic euphemism. I know all about those. Sweetening up the truth so it’s more palatable- veiling things inside. Still I find it gross. I avoid looking at her though she’s watching me. Inwardly I tense. Outside I just attack the fruit with more vengeance-picking apart all the little compartments and spilling out the seeds. They’re such a pale red, and I wonder what the appeal is. So little fruit for so much work. With mothers eyes on me I know I should get ready for class but I’m thinking about the worker. She’s going to ask her questions again. I imagine my own inspection.
‘How are you?’ Delicate little look on a delicate little face.
‘I’m fine, good.’
‘That’s good. You’re not too busy these days?’ Too busy for what, I wonder.
Then I wonder what to say to that; Yes, I’m busy but no, it’s fine.
‘Not really’ I say, shrugging a bit.
‘It’s nice when you can find a bit of peace in your life’.
I don’t respond. Sometimes it’s worth it to hold your tongue. She continues, launching quietly into a sermon in which she interrogates me.
‘Peace is a wonderful thing, and isn’t it an amazing gift that God has given us? He has so much he wants to offer us, all of us. Are you willing to share peace with God?’
Or something like that. I’m never satisfied when it’s over. She’s so quiet she doesn’t need to be subtle, doesn’t need to use diplomatic euphemisms. Just smiles a bit, very still as she surveys whatever is in your eyes. Here’s where I end up looking away, and where she waits for me to say something. Here some might produce a spiritual comment, talk about the miracle they’ve found in God, or the peace budding inside them. I remain quiet. I’m never satisfied when it’s over.
It’s always the same-picking into the compartments of my faith-foraging for the seeds. They never find very much, and I wonder what they see that they continue to search for more. Still, it’s never seemed to keep them from trying. I wonder if they’re so persistent with everyone. I’ve been told that faith can seem such a fickle thing, growing only in the right conditions. Like a pomegranate. Here its too cold, or there’s not enough water. There there’s not enough sunshine, not enough shelter. With beginning as precarious as these we must be careful to cultivate our seeds diligently. Water them daily with mixtures of submission and compassion, humility and love. Shelter them from doubt, and give them time to mature into beautiful life bearing fruit. It’s these conditions we must create, take time to nurture our seeds until they are fully ripe and then spread them. Or so I’m told.
I can never find it in me to tell them it’s not there, these conditions they’re looking for; I’m not like them. That I’m completely spiritually empty. Seedless. Less fruit than even a pomegranate.
‘Honey, it’s eight o’clock, don’t you think you should get going?’ She frowns at my ruined pomegranate, wasted fruit.
Yeah I think I should get going. I’m going to be late for my class. Chemistry, and I have a midterm to study for. I squish the seeds in my hand together-no longer interested in eating it. I’m not sure I ever was.
‘Okay, I’ll be home after three’ I say a bit vaguely, getting up to leave. I throw the pomegranate in the compost on my way out. I think I won’t be home for supper tonight.
Comments