Il Melo Cotogno

The melo cotogno stands tall in our backyard.

The tree branches are just getting sturdy, the leaves are bright green, and the fruit is nearly ripe.

Five years.

It’s been five years since I first planted that tree with my mom.

Five years.

Waiting and waiting for the day to come to bring the fruit in.

***

The melo cotogno is a cousin to the apple and pear tree.

Its fruit is tart and dense but soft and sweet when cooked.

In English, you would call this a quince tree.

I guess that’s what I must begin to call it from now on.

***

Five years in the making, watching the tiny twig grow into a beautiful fruit-bearing tree.

Well, almost.

It’s almost there.

One more month and the fruit will be ours.

The fruit would’ve been ours.

***

What could have been:

Me and mom picking the fruit in her weaved basket, cleaning the quince, splashing water everywhere, and slowly (and messily) cooking it on the stovetop.

But that scene has disintegrated to dust.

The memories and dreams will vanish, and now I must leave the tree behind too.

***

Things haven’t been the same since she’s been gone.

We don’t even talk about what happened.

Some past moments will reappear with objects or pictures, but other than that, it is mostly silence.

The silence reminds all of us of what could have been.

What would have been.

If it wasn’t for him.

***

Him.

He who could never be named.

Reckless and young and free.

With accidents.

“But accidents happen.”

Some “accidents” can’t be forgiven.

***

There comes a time when choices are made.

Like this one–dad decided we needed to get out of this house, to move on.

Get out of our neighborhood, out of Italy, and off to our family who migrated to America two decades ago.

As much as he will say that this needs to be done, it’s a choice.

Everything is a choice.

No one said they would have to be good options.

Just like he made a choice, so did this nameless man.

Nameless because he doesn’t deserve one.

But honestly, I can’t even remember it.

That was probably a choice too...to forget it.

***

Five years ago.

When we planted the tree, I remember her saying:

“Just wait. This will take patience, plenty, and plenty of patience. Years of patience. But it will be worth it. Just wait and see, my darling, just wait and see. ”

Well.

I waited and waited with you.

I waited and waited without you.

And it’s not worth it.

I won’t get to taste the labor of our love.

I won’t get to watch you slowly stirring over the stovetop.

And the tree will become someone else's.

I had the patience.

But what now?

What would you say now?

Would you be as mad as me?

Or would you forgive?

Because I can’t. I can’t forgive. Is that okay too?

***

Because I’m not okay.

***

It’s not okay.

Stepping behind the wheel.

When your mind and limbs are at a disconnect.

When they told you to get out but you didn’t listen.

When the pungent smell still lingers on your lips.

When the world is spinning and there is not enough light.

Nameless man, there is not enough light.

Not enough light.

***

There hasn’t been enough light since then.

***

Il melo cotogno.

The quince tree.

The quince tree stands tall.

It will stand tall when we are gone.

And it will still bear fruit that we can’t taste.

But it will always remain there.

As the thing that could have been.

As the life we could have lived.

***

No.

What should have been.