I must be honest with you. Half my motivation for coming here was for the figs. And what was your reason, I wonder, that you invited me out here. Was it for the loneliness you’ve felt as your husband can only be visited temporarily, or the desire to feel young again by choosing what to put before your eyes while hiding the mirrors (I’ve done the same), or do you feel our time is coming to an end.
I’d rather not think about it. I’d rather think about the figs. How I will spend hours down in the deserted garden harvesting these tiny candies filling the casket of my belly till I bloat with a bellyache. And how I will make jar after jar of ginger fig jam until
I’m quite certain I won’t be able to close my suitcase without kneeing it into a closed submission. Ill make my attempt at a homemade fig newton recipe. You’ll stand guard lest I crystallize the fig remains once more in your “65 year old stainless steel pan” that you and my grandfather sold at dinner parties… that you and my grandfather sold at dinner parties… Did I tell you about the time your grandfather and I sold stainless steel dishware at dinner parties?
I’m amazed. And now it’s over. You’ve never been big on goodbyes and yet your lingering stance and continual conversation makes me restless. The suspicion that this could be the last time I have with you paralyzes my emotional attachment.
And all I can think about is the figs.