I bought the pomegranate out of nostalgia.
Last year I was pregnant when the stores started keeping huge crates of them. For some reason I wanted pomegranates every time I walked into a grocery store, and I ate several every week until, half-way through a pomegranate in December, they stopped tasting good. So I stopped buying them. They went out of season. I didn’t think about them again until this past week when I walked into our grocery store and saw a pyramid of the mottled red fruit.
I’m not sure why it felt so significant today, eating my pomegranate for a quiet, mid-afternoon snack while Iris slept in the backpack carrier. Something about her warm body folded into the small of my back, hidden and completely at peace. Something too about the tight secrecy of the pomegranate seeds.
I don’t know exactly.
But it felt mirrored and circular and comforting. Like something that ought to be a poem, only I don’t have time for writing poems. Also I was hungry.
And now, correcting the color and wishing I had worked harder on the focus and trying to find words for that transient wisp of feeling… I wish I had more time. For everything.