Seeds and All

My grandma’s house had a huge tangerine tree. It reached up towards the second story of her Spanish style home. It greeted you as you came towards the house. The smell of tangerines and citrus blossoms as strong as Soarin’ Over California.

They weren’t seedless. Every once in a while you’d eat a tangerine and you’d feel something hard between your teeth. I’d fish the seed out of my mouth, but my grandma was never grossed out or thought me impolite for sticking my fingers in my mouth. Her tangerines tasted sweeter than any I’d ever had and probably will ever have. I hope that tree is still there. They sold the house when my grandma died. It’s under construction now. I haven’t driven by in a while. It hurts my heart to see it change.

I know that’s the natural order of things. I do believe that “God is Change” as Octavia Butler says. Still, my soul aches to see the electrical work that my grandpa did himself be rewired.

I hope the next family will love that land like we did. They’ll garden it and plant tomatoes. Maybe they’ll secretly grow weed somewhere on the property like my aunt did and run from swarms of bees from the neighbor’s house like I had to when gardening some days. Their kids might play Take Out between the arches in the driveway. Making tacos out of plant leaves and serving them to their cousins who drive by in their imaginary cars. I hope someone is haunted by my grandpa the way I was in that house, lovingly. They should have old tortoises, older than me, that dig burrows and try to escape to the street.

They must never forget how special that place is. That there’s a magic there that was cultivated by my grandma and probably by those before her. That there was music in that house. That there were movies and fights and fables. I hope they savor those tangerines as we did, seeds and all.