Cracked: A Story

It had been one of those weeks—when life forces you to learn a hard lesson the old-fashioned way. And by that, I mean when you’re thrown into the boxing ring with an unexpected situation, and the moment you see it, you know it’s going to feel like a punch in the gut.

So it was that I found myself sitting with my sister on a bright Saturday morning for what could either be described as a talk or an emotional purge, depending on how you look at it. Either way, she listened patiently, letting me feel my way through it all, as sisters do, allowing me to stumble and pick myself up again without judgement. We sat in the backyard, the sky perfectly blue without a cloud in the sky. The air was sunny, warm, and crisp—the way Southern California gets in Autumn, trying on the season as if it were playing dress up.

After a while, I said I’d better get going. We said our goodbyes, and I made my way along the side of the house. As I neared the front, I noticed the fruit trees lining the gate: fig, apple, and in the middle of the two, pomegranate. Most of the fruit on the first two were far past ripe, tiny mouthfuls carved out of their sides from small birds or insects. The pomegranate tree, on the other hand, was swelling with fruit. The tree was heavy, with big red bulbs weighing down the tree like Christmas ornaments. I decided to take a few home.

The tree was elevated off the ground above a small cement ledge. I hoisted myself up on the ledge and reached up into the branches, snapping off four large, ripe bulbs. They were perfect.

I jumped down from the ledge and opened the wooden gate that sectioned off the front yard from the back. But as my arm reached forward, two of the pomegranates slipped from under my cradling arms. I stumbled, trying to catch them. One bounced off my knee. I saw it shoot toward the ground as the other dropped out from under my grasp. I tried to catch it, but my fingers raked through air.

Thwack! …Thwack!

I froze, staring at the pavement. There, lying in a small pool of rainwater from the night before, were the two pomegranates—heads split open, bleeding out crimson juice from either side. The puddle slowly turned dark as the blood-red juice leaked from their severed skulls. I stood there, clutching the two remaining pomegranates in my hands, willing myself not to cry. Pull yourself together for god’s sake. They’re just pomegranates.   

Still, I could feel the hot flood roaring up from the depths, tearing upward through my insides. I willed the tears back, the salt only having freshly dried on my cheeks. But the more I tried to keep the tears from bursting through my inner dam, the more I could feel the pressure building at the base of my throat and behind my eyes. I could almost hear the cracks splitting open, zigzagging across the surface like ice breaking.

That’s when the tears came up and out—gushing out like a torrential rainstorm. Hot and wild, nature displaying its finest fury.

As tears streamed down my face, I picked up the still-bleeding pomegranates, careful not to get any drops on my light green pants. The juice was now dripping down my fingers, over my wrists, slowly making its way toward my elbow. I grabbed a spare plastic bag from my car, shoving the broken bulbs inside, and propped it against the side of the door next to my feet so the juice wouldn’t drip out. I closed the door, leaned back, and inhaled deeply.

As I backed out of the driveway, I looked through the rear view mirror. Through blurry eyes I noticed pumpkins on the porch across the street. I had completely forgotten—today was Halloween. Well, I thought, trick-or-treat indeed...

When I got home, I filled a bowl with lukewarm water, cracked the pomegranates open and slowly plucked out the seeds inside. I took my time, discarding the seeds that were bruised where the crack had been. I put the seeds in a strainer, swirled them around to rinse them, and set them aside. I popped a few in my mouth, the tart sweetness making the back of my tongue near my molars constrict and tingle.

***

I open my computer and start writing. As I type this, my fingertips are still stained from cracking open the bulbs, peeling out the seeds, bunch by bunch. I still have specs of dried crimson juice on my forearms from when the seeds split open and flecks of black-red juice splattered across my skin.

This is the part where I consider why I felt compelled to write all this, why I felt something stir inside. This is the part where I think about the meaning of it all, where I put a nice little bow on top to tie it all together. Where I boil it down to a tidy little one-liner, bringing it to a comfortable and satisfactory end.

Candidly, I’m not quite sure what it was that compelled me to write it all down. Maybe there is no moral of the story. Maybe the happening itself was poetic in a way, and that in and of itself is okay. Maybe the point is that the moment was ugly and beautiful at the same time, and there isn’t some deeper meaning to wrap it all up with. Maybe the reason for the story is simply the story itself. The idea that there are moments that cause us to pause and take a closer look.

Maybe that’s the whole point after all: to be present enough to let a moment completely consume us, simply because it’s full and real and wonderful in a way we can’t totally comprehend. Maybe the point is to simply bring us back to the here and now, to shock us back into the present moment.