This piece was originally published in Quarto’s 2022 Spring Print.
Illustration by Kaavya Gnanam
She asks if I remember them—I remember
few, I say. Leaning deep into leaves,
my aunt pinched and turned white berries
from the pearl tree in hands as old and twisted
as the branches. She rushed to where I waited,
uncurled her palm and tossed them, rolling
into linen spread of my lap. She squeezed
my fingers into hers and pushed the silver point
through each fruit, tugging on the thread
until my palms were wet with juice.
I feel the grip and weight of a white necklace
soft and warm in the curve of my neck. I return
to the garden, alive again with yellow flowers
and the fresh scent of cucumbers. I am tall
enough now, but she holds my fingers back
and thrusts her own arthritic hand in leaves,
her mind fixed on a memory. One wet finger
unfolds and reveals a palmful of pearls.
She asks if I remember her.
Lida (BC'23 she/her/hers) is a Psychology and Education major from Houston, Texas. Writing poetry is a way for her to connect with Iranian culture and explore new creative boundaries.