“Yek-i bud, yek-i nabud,” the old woman whispered. She rocked in her chair, a long grey braid over one shoulder and ball of faded mauve yarn clutched in a hand too frail to let go. She seemed oblivious to the child at her feet, until suddenly she made eye contact. “Once there was, once there was not.”
“How can something be and not be at the same time, Grand-bozorg?” He drew an uneven circle with a stubby finger on the porch’s wooden boards, making sure to bump over every metal nail securing the planks.
She pulled her knitting needles from the yarn and shook them at him playfully. “Your Farsi is terrible. That is not how you say grandmama. Not even close.”
The old woman rocked a few moments more, then laughed. “And you’re too young for Schroedinger, I think. But let me tell you a story.”
The boy clapped his hands, then picked up a plastic hammer and tapped the nails.
“Once,” she began, and rocked a few times more. “Once, if you would believe it, I was a young woman, in a faraway city. My days were filled with studies and friends, and I was surrounded by laughter and the scent of pomegranates.”
The boy looked up from his hammering. “I know pomegranates!”
“I should hope so,” she teased, leaning forward to tousle his hair. “It’s only our special treat. But I wish I could share with you the magic of the pomegranates of my youth. Walking through the bazaar – what you would call a market – the colors would lure you in for a taste, and in between the sweet fruit were spices, piled to tease your senses.”
The hammer dangled from one hand. “What happened?”
She sat back and rocked again, the knitting needles long forgotten in her lap. “One day, my father sat me down for tea, the kind with cardamom and saffron rock candy instead of sugar cubes. I was worried he was going to marry me off, because I wanted to continue my studies.”
The old woman stared into the distance. “Despite our walled garden, I knew things were tense in the city. And had my father not taken tea so seriously that day, I still might have missed the signs. He told me to study, and study hard, especially my English and French.”
A whisper. “I can still see the blue of the sky and hear the crested larks chirping.”
“Mama tells me to study, too,” piped the boy.
She dragged herself back to the present and gave him a smile. “Indeed, as she should.”
“Did great-grandpapa-bazorg tell you to study a lot?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No, he normally left that to my mother. Everything about that day was unusual.” Tapping her head, she added firmly, “You must notice if such a thing ever happens to you, and pay attention, and remember.”
With a sigh, she felt every inch of her years. “And you must also study your Farsi, my fandogh koochooloo. That was terrible. Again.”
“So what happened to the pomegranates?”
“Een niz bogzarad,” she answered. “This, too, shall pass. Ultimately, it all must eventually end, for good or ill. Even the pomegranates wither and taste sad. Revolution came, and violence, and so we fled into the night from somber, bearded men.”
“I will find you a new pom’granate,” he vowed, crisscrossing a dirty finger over his heart, streaking his plaid shirt. “Until it tastes like it did.”
“You know, my own madar tried to bring a pomegranate with us, to plant when we found a new home, but my father said only essentials. It caused a huge fight, because she kept insisting it was indeed essential.” She winked. “I think she was right.”
***
This week’s prompt came from Padre: Ultimately, it all must eventually end, for good or ill. And check out what Parrish Baker did with a hawk landing on the patio umbrella – and more, over at MOTE! There’s still time to send in your own prompt for this week, or snag a spare!
