My grandmother has aged into a sweet, ripe persimmon

Her long, strong nails are gently circling along the skin of my back. She loves me. And she shows it. She shows me that despite the bullshit that’s thrown at us since the day we are born… we can be gentle. We can caress our lovers. Nurture our friends. Eat greasy food. Eat food that tastes like an I love you.

My grandmother’s sweat smells like jasmine on a sunny day. Oh, what I’d do to be a child again—nuzzled into the warmth of her chest, rocked to sleep, and woken up in the morning to some hot, cardamom tea.

Today, the fruit that lines my kitchen’s windowsill is an ode to her. Their changing colors and textures: A symbol of the many lives she has lived. The fruits’ sweet juice: The songs she’d sing in the springtime.