What Takes Time

notes from a pomegranate

I buy the pomegranate because it looks good this time of year. Heavy, tight-skinned, already split at the seam. I cut it down the center and juice bleeds out, staining the board. I grab two bowls and bring them to the table.

We sit across from each other at first, then closer. It takes both hands to get started. We talk while our hands work. About your job. About my mom. About how strange time is, how she was once a kid too, how she was my age when I was eleven. I try to picture it and can’t. We keep pulling the seeds loose.

Some go straight into my mouth. Sharp, bright. Others collect in the bowl, clicking softly as they land. I like eating as I go. It gives the conversation room. When you pause, I don’t rush to fill it. My hands keep moving.

Halfway through, my fingers ache in a familiar way. Juice runs past my wrists. A seed jumps the bowl and lands on the floor. We both see it and let it stay. The big bowl in the center fills with rind. The space between us narrows.

A pomegranate is a terrible snack if you’re in a hurry. It stains the things you touch. It asks for patience you don’t always have. There’s a moment where I wonder why I didn’t choose something simpler, something that could be finished quickly and cleared away. But the work keeps going. Your voice lowers. I stop thinking about what I’ll say next.

When there’s nothing left to loosen, we don’t move right away. My hands are sticky. The bowls are heavy. The table looks worked over, like something happened here. I don’t reach for anything else.

We sit for a while, the way I’ve learned to lately.