Ode to Pomegranate
I grew up surrounded with pomegranate trees, their bright red flowers and small delicate leaves, the luscious fruit. They are imbedded in my deepest memories. They mean the unique connection to my childhood, to my native city...
I remember those pomegranates that were proudly strut in grandfather’s magnificent garden, garden so pure and natural and so prolific. From the early August I would start saying: Are they ready yet, are they ready yet… this one seams red enough… Than the beginning of school year and the first fruits ripening. I remember all the love and excitement in grandpa’s eyes while he was proudly giving me the best fruits as soon as I walked in their yard;
I remember the afternoons on the seawall, my teenage friends and I and our yellow hands from pealing the skin off the pomegranates we picked of the branches that were hanging over the fence of someone’s yard while we walked back from school;
I can't forget numerous foraging hikes with the grandma to gather loads of tiny and tart wild pomegranates for making the healthy winter pick me-up juice;
I memorized the poem lines I wrote about this nature's jewel while I was homesick during my early university days;
I think of pomegranates in my mom’s garden and those that beautify our piece of land in the hills above my native city;
I remember those wild ones along the side of the steep walkway leading up to the little cemetery where my father rests…
Now, living in Canada I have to be content with buying the organic pomegranates that someone picked for me in California.