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...