Like Raisins on the Vine
Sometimes you have to make your own magic. Like when you find that perfect pomegranate, and instead of squirreling it away, you share it with the people around you. That look of pure satisfaction as they eat the purplish-red seeds, the quick pop, the burst of flavor in their mouths, and then the expression of joy — that is magic.
One day, not so long ago, we were sitting under the large circular grape arbor made of wood beams and covered by broad green grape leaves winding haphazardly above us. Beneath, the patio was made up of odds and ends. I saw, among pieces of pottery tile, bright green flecks of glass from the cup I broke on my second day. It was no longer useful for drinking, but it found a new home here, as part of the mosaic that formed the outdoor floor.
It must have been early fall. The grapes were hanging down in dense, sticky sweet bunches. Most of the grapes on the farm had gone by, no more than raisins on the vine, but if you knew where to look, there were still a few succulent fruits hanging among the leaves. This particular grape arbor, the one we were eating under, was tired and done for the season. The sticky, dark purple fruits only food for the birds and the wasps.
We were all feeling rather lazy but still thinking of work. The day before, I had taken a piece out of my hand with a hatchet, it wasn’t painful, but it bled a lot. The woman sitting across from me had also sliced herself open by accident. She had been playing with concrete; I don’t think it was too bad, but her hands were so dry it was hard to tell. Next to her was a man with white hair. He isn’t old, he’d just been playing with limestone. The new arches were beautiful, but he couldn’t work that day because no one was helping him, and he couldn’t lift the stones by himself.
It was a midday feast on an unexpected day off. We had our pot of buckwheat and vegetables, our salad (yes, there were pomegranate seeds from fruit plucked just a few minutes before the meal). We had our spoons and our appetites, but no energy to do more than pass the bowls around, each person having a spoonful or two, and passing it on. The crisp freshness of the salad balanced the heat and garlic in the buckwheat. Surprisingly, for such hot weather, we ate a lot. Our lovely cook was happy — she had forgotten so many people had gone home, and there were only around a quarter of the workers here.
The food gave us some magic. For half an hour, we sat around, full and content, breathing in the sweet scent of fermenting grapes. After a time, new energy flooded through us. My fellow countryman ran off to make bread, the young white-haired man found the tools someone was looking for and then went to play the piano. The rest of us scattered to our various individual endeavors. The farm was not so big, but if everyone was doing their own thing, it was not likely we would run into each other. Only when people were motionless would you find anyone. The day was still stagnant, but we were living, breathing beings once more rather than the stationary stones we had been in the morning.
That night I went to find my friend with the concrete on her hands. I wanted to give her some lotion to soften the creases in her fingers. When I went to her yurt, though, and pushed aside the red and white curtain, I found no one sleeping there. I thought she had said she was going to bed an hour before, but all I could hear or see in the semi-darkness was a sigh of someone in heavy slumber and five empty beds. I realized that in sleep, she must have slipped between the curtains of reality, living time at a different pace than I was. It was no use trying to find her then. I would see her the next morning when the sun came up.