Greenhouse Gingham and Grapes
Memories of him
A single grape. It hangs, delicate in the grasp of a dark stalk, holding it the way I held him: tight but just loose enough to let it break free from everything with the tug of another’s hand. I pulled it down, the way he was taken from me. Sharp, fast, with a bit of force and rebound. Only I was aware that this was my intention as I sat the solitary grape in a basket of precocious yet polished fruits. Who knew such beauty could be reaped in a place like this? My grandfather would spend hours in here, bent double yet gleaming with pride at the wonders he would nurture. The sun would cascade through the intricacies of stained glass on the roof, casting a rose glimmer on the cobbles, greening at the edges with moss and old age. Often, if not worn out by the heat or sticky air, he would sit on the white but rusted metal chairs which hid behind shy Monstera leaves, reading his ancient novels set in Tuscany or Florence, and hum his little ditties to the sounds of birds singing in the orange trees outside, if not to be immersed in the stories of his youth, but to hold on to the sunlight just a bit longer before he shut his eyes in slumber. Grapes never seemed so universal.
I see him in here, even now with the cracks on the glass and power washed stones. I see him as he holds me up to reach a pomegranate from the highest branch. He lowers me and smiles, ruffles my hair and puts the fruit in his basket. We’ll make juice from them later. I could live here for eternity – the place I dreamt of as a child, the place I long for now, and the place I will always remember him. Light in my life when I longed for it most, but only looking back now do I understand that. Weekends filled with sugar, sun, peaches and fun.
I reached for another grape: solitary, raisin like, slightly brown. Him, I thought. I rested it in my palm for slightly longer than a moment before letting it get lost amongst the other purple pearls. My friends were sat laughing in the kitchen as I brought the basket to them and placed it in the centre of the gingham tablecloth, splashed with the occasional oil stain. We took off our sandals and began to crush the grapes with our feet. He’s gone. He’s leaving me. The pride of a single grape being squashed and reduced to mush was the only way I could picture him now.
Where was his greenhouse, the cobblestones and glistening pond?
We put the liquid aside to ferment before picking up a bottle from a few months prior. I sat and sipped from his green engraved tumbler, just as he did, and thought to myself, how could any hand pluck such a delicate fruit to take him away from this place? Well, only I would know.
