Fruit for the Wintering

Let the harvest be gathered now

early,

long before the frost comes to nip at the edges of our names.

come walk my orchard,

baskets carefully slung on our arms

to pick whatever ripens:

the sound of my father's laugh,

the turn of his wrist wielding a screwdriver,

the way he says my name

so as not to misplace a single syllable.

I press each moment between pages

gently, reverently,

memories like leaves that might crumble with too sharp a breath.

What if the wind recognizes their weight

and tries to take them back?

I fear the inheritance of forgetting.

Nana's mind lays as a field in winter;

fallow, quiet, mostly bare.

sometimes a rogue memory breaks through the hardened soil

and she remembers me, first grandchild.

but as quickly as it sprouts, the fruit withers on the vine.

and she sits, her smile like a door

swinging on rusty hinges, repeating the same creaky story

over and over in a span of ten coherent minutes.

I've learned not to blame the wind for where it blows,

but could I forgive its cold indifference?

I fear the inheritance of forgetting

so I gather memories like apples:

Old Spice and sawdust clinging to his shirts,

his eyes softening green as his mustache tucks into a smile,

his second toe gnarling like a crooked finger, just like mine--

(right or left? I can't remember, and suddenly that feels like everything)

Still, I fear the inheritance of forgetting,

fear the loose thread pulled tight through bloodlines

until the day that he forgets to tell me to 'watch out for critters' as I drive home,

fear the mask of his face that will ask who I am

and I will owe it an answer.

I gather.

I gather for abundance.

I gather to preserve, to can, to shelve the sweet moments that will keep me through the wintering to come:

the scratchy touch of his unshaven cheek as I lean in for a kiss,

each silly song composed for the purchase of laughter,

every dance in the living room standing on the tops of his feet.

I gather until my arms ache

and the basket splits at the seams

and the whole orchard feels lighter for the taking.

I gather hope in the face of uncertainty,

even when winters run in the family

and the future looks like blowing snow.

And if the forgetting ever comes for me--

if it comes for him--

it will find us both, overflowing

pockets and palms full of fruit

and lips and hearts stained with the

sweet harvest of a legacy preserved.