The Grapes of Joy

Today, as I walked through my mama and daddy’s yard, the last grapes of the season called to me. They always call to me – with memories of childhood days spent under Grandmama’s makeshift arbor: not only picking (and eating), but playing, using imagination, reflecting on life, sitting in a shady spot. . . .the kind of memories that seem like such every-day-run-of-the-mill days that you don’t fully appreciate them until they’re gone. Sometimes they disappear only for a season. Other times they are gone for good – relegated to that place where all happy memories live. But even when the thing itself is gone, as long as the memory remains, it takes only a scent, a sight, or the shifting of a breeze to call it all back. That was what happened today. The slightest hint of a ripeness – bordering-on-fermentation; the tease of tiny purple orbs peeking at me between leaves. . . my mouth waters, and I answer the call of the grapes. I pluck the darkest ones; pop them in my mouth one by one. A slight squeeze and I first feel, then taste their juicy pulp. I let it rest a moment, then swallow all the sweet goodness (seeds and all), tossing away only the hull. As the flavor fades, it is tinged with sadness for the end of the season. It is soon overtaken, though, for I have paused and reflected and refreshed myself with grapes of joy.

Written Sept. 2007