Recollections of Anahr

It ruined everything. The carpet, the white sofa, the white blocks stuck in her mouth were covered in a red goo, bursting through unpickable crevices, being saved for later. The old woman sat laughing at the aimless clouds of red which now contaminated the Roche Bobois Italian leather cushioned seat.

"A mess fit for a king," the old woman said. She discarded the old leathery peel onto the floor in front of the wide-eyed child who played; poking at her own plush, thinking of the feeling of saffron ice cream.

"You know my sweet Joonam, this fruit means power in our culture," she explained, waiting for her dramatic pause to intrigue the young child. Yet, the baby couldn't speak, nor could she understand even the most basic of English words. Although, to say the least, the little girl had mastered the act of open, unblinking eyes to demonstrate that she wished to be tickled, but nothing more.

The old woman stood up and left the child to return to her favorite room, the kitchen. The child, occupied, was unaware that she was now alone, carried on in her attempt to stick four of her fingers into her noise box.

The giant returned with another one of those leather balls, old and wrinkly with a crown on its head woven from similar skin. Its flesh was beaten and bruised, scabbed completely in a thick purple and red splotch. The baby paid no attention to it, as her own anatomy was enough excitement for that particular minute.

The woman's face curled into a smile, closely cradling the bloody head of the red leathery sphere into a peaceful sleep. It was the theatrical, careful cupping of the fruit which caused the child to peek above her tiny hands, now casually bemused by the ball which the giant held with such caution and importance.

The woman hugged the fruit to her chest as she slowly sat back in front of the child, who had now deserted her ambitions to eat her own fist and entrusted her full attention forwards. "One could also call it.. A treasure" she thought aloud, slowly lowering the fruit to the child's eye-level, as she feared her little neck might break from over-extension.

The child touched it, and then, as she always checked, placed the same finger in her mouth for context and taste. The child was left surprised! She had never experienced such a lack of flavors in her whole life, granted, she had only been alive for six-and-a-half months. Nevertheless, even the sand outside on the Laguna Niguel Beach had more tang than this absurdly boring ball.

Unimpressed, she proceeded to lick her fingers, as they too had more flavoring than the red splotch. But in one swift motion, the woman pierced her two thumbs into the heart of the leathery sphere, which began to bleed and bleed. The little girl, fairly confused, stared intriguingly at this mischievous fruit, as the woman quickly plucked a white napkin and proceeded to stop the bleeding.

The baby's eyes drifted to her brow, noticing the peculiar sparkle in the woman's two glassy globes, and then slowly returned back to the punctured heart in front of her nose.

Another swift motion. The thumbs dug deeper into the organ of the fruit, ripping it in two to reveal a field of red opals, shimmering in the blood of their brothers, like sticky pearls waiting to be plucked. The toddler reached out to touch, but as if she pulled a string, the jewels were drawn back.

"You see- Joonam," spoke the woman. "You're too young to eat this fruit, it's too dangerous you might choke. Yes, when you're older I'll let you pick from my garden Báche." They sat in silence until the little girl commenced stage two: Crying, seeing that after 30 whole seconds of waiting she wasn't going to get her way.

"Shh, Shh, Joonam come, I'll get you some ice cream instead," at which the little girl stopped her crying, seeing that she did recall that familiar sound the woman made with her voice: Ásé kweem. She started to giggle, accompanied with a sappy smile.

Over a decade later, the 12-year-old sat in silence, making note that the car ride back was far worse considering she was strapped in place, forced into a recollection of these memories; cradling a tear-soaked pomegranate in one hand and the eulogy she wrote for her grandmother in the other.