i was making my way back to the house. gravel was stealthily slipping into my dusty sandals. the sun was beating down on my back, the heat penetrating through my clothes. young grape vines were crowding me on either side of the path. their fingers were outstretched thankful for company. small, plump grapes dangled like earrings from fickle branches. waxy leaves sheltered drips of water from the light sprinkle of rain they got the night before. Grasshoppers pushed their way through dirt refusing to budge.
just beyond the reach of the grape trees laid the peach orchards. The orchards were my favorite. They stood tall, old, wise. Their vains laced up strong trunks. One tree stood the tallest. It was in the middle of the orchard. Its roots in an entangled bundle at the foot of the tree. if i sat precisely in the right way, the roots would transform into a big, comfortable chair. Looking up, you could see the skeleton of the weathered tree. i could only see it sitting in that chair. i was the only one who could see older, withered leaves and broken branches. i was the only one could see the newborn, sprouting leaves. only me. only i could see. when people take a breathe and sit down upon foundations they relax. i relax. we can look up through the world's gnarled and twisted branches. but through the leaves peeps the sunlight who nurtures the vineyards and browns my back. there is hope through the ugliness and there is understanding through thick confusion. After sitting awhile my body would become restless. my feet would find knots nestled in the rough bark of the peach tree. my hands would find tough branches. and i would climb up the tree. not climb, but fly. and then i would reach the top. i crouched on the tallest branch. looking like a vulture, i scanned the horizon. and thats when i understood. thats when i realized. hope in the face of the sun and the purple of the grapes. hope in the blue of the sky and the cauliflower clouds. hope built into the base of my cousin's house and hope threaded through the labor of the fields.
i made my way down the tree and onto the road. the orchards were smiling behind me. their fresh perfume remaining in the stitching of my clothes. and when the the dust cleared from my sauntering walk, you could see it.
the rustic stucco house, and the protective iron gate. and the large welcoming windows with large overhangs that held candles dripping melted wax. i could distinctly smell breakfast, chocolate croissants, and freshly picked fruit. i sat down in an old wooden chair and ran my fingers across the table that surpassed my own age. i could feel the years of hot sun and long days of harvesting. the vineyards were beautiful now, the sun was hitting them just right. their leaves a beacon of pure gold. i walked inside to get a cool glass of water. The condensation dripped down my arm. it was eerily quiet but peaceful. an old stereo was running. no t.v. just piles of books. i like it that way. i walked upstairs to check if my cousins were awake but they were all sleeping. i walked back down the tiled stairs without making a sound and slipped back out the chipped-painted door but the hinges still bent and creaked with old age. the sun was now fully awake, watching over the house and the grapes as if they were her own children. breakfast was still teasing me, the smell taunted my nose. but i waited, it was tradition. i dove into the pool, no harsh chemicals, just fresh water. luke-warm water. butterflies danced in the air, only me to watch them. and the plants were growing toward the pool deck, just to get a sip of that fresh water. isabel stretched her arms and waited at the table. i got out of the pool and sat down. nicholas and jenna walked out of the door and slumped into their chairs. their eyes were still hazy and dreamy. then my family stumbled out of bed with my aunt and uncle. apricots, cherries, peaches, and pears were passed around. the croissants were gone now. only flakes of the pastry marked their existence on smooth colored plates and the smell of bitter chocolate lingering, faintly. we all sat at the table, a table that was now part of the family, of tradition. we were all quiet, as if the the survival of the the grape trees depended on our silence. our eyes grazing the tips of the olive trees that gave flavor to homemade bread at dinner. and the frogs that awaited our exit in the puddles of rain in the dirt. sprouting plants tried to push their way through but they struggled under the weight of the frogs. it was all so foreign, but rooted in my heritage. a part of me that people may never see, a part of me that is so precious because of its place that is so close to my heart. a little piece of the vineyard growing and thriving. its roots in my heart and its branches bending with the weight of healthy grapes into France and the hearts of my family.
i was making my way back to the house. gravel was stealthily slipping into my dusty sandals. the sun was beating down on my back, the heat penetrating through my clothes. young grape vines were crowding me on either side of the path. their fingers were outstretched thankful for company. small, plump grapes dangled like earrings from fickle branches. waxy leaves sheltered drips of water from the light sprinkle of rain they got the night before. Grasshoppers pushed their way through dirt refusing to budge.
just beyond the reach of the grape trees laid the peach orchards. The orchards were my favorite. They stood tall, old, wise. Their vains laced up strong trunks. One tree stood the tallest. It was in the middle of the orchard. Its roots in an entangled bundle at the foot of the tree. if i sat precisely in the right way, the roots would transform into a big, comfortable chair. Looking up, you could see the skeleton of the weathered tree. i could only see it sitting in that chair. i was the only one who could see older, withered leaves and broken branches. i was the only one could see the newborn, sprouting leaves. only me. only i could see. when people take a breathe and sit down upon foundations they relax. i relax. we can look up through the world's gnarled and twisted branches. but through the leaves peeps the sunlight who nurtures the vineyards and browns my back. there is hope through the ugliness and there is understanding through thick confusion. After sitting awhile my body would become restless. my feet would find knots nestled in the rough bark of the peach tree. my hands would find tough branches. and i would climb up the tree. not climb, but fly. and then i would reach the top. i crouched on the tallest branch. looking like a vulture, i scanned the horizon. and thats when i understood. thats when i realized. hope in the face of the sun and the purple of the grapes. hope in the blue of the sky and the cauliflower clouds. hope built into the base of my cousin's house and hope threaded through the labor of the fields.
i made my way down the tree and onto the road. the orchards were smiling behind me. their fresh perfume remaining in the stitching of my clothes. and when the the dust cleared from my sauntering walk, you could see it.
the rustic stucco house, and the protective iron gate. and the large welcoming windows with large overhangs that held candles dripping melted wax. i could distinctly smell breakfast, chocolate croissants, and freshly picked fruit. i sat down in an old wooden chair and ran my fingers across the table that surpassed my own age. i could feel the years of hot sun and long days of harvesting. the vineyards were beautiful now, the sun was hitting them just right. their leaves a beacon of pure gold. i walked inside to get a cool glass of water. The condensation dripped down my arm. it was eerily quiet but peaceful. an old stereo was running. no t.v. just piles of books. i like it that way. i walked upstairs to check if my cousins were awake but they were all sleeping. i walked back down the tiled stairs without making a sound and slipped back out the chipped-painted door but the hinges still bent and creaked with old age. the sun was now fully awake, watching over the house and the grapes as if they were her own children. breakfast was still teasing me, the smell taunted my nose. but i waited, it was tradition. i dove into the pool, no harsh chemicals, just fresh water. luke-warm water. butterflies danced in the air, only me to watch them. and the plants were growing toward the pool deck, just to get a sip of that fresh water. isabel stretched her arms and waited at the table. i got out of the pool and sat down. nicholas and jenna walked out of the door and slumped into their chairs. their eyes were still hazy and dreamy. then my family stumbled out of bed with my aunt and uncle. apricots, cherries, peaches, and pears were passed around. the croissants were gone now. only flakes of the pastry marked their existence on smooth colored plates and the smell of bitter chocolate lingering, faintly. we all sat at the table, a table that was now part of the family, of tradition. we were all quiet, as if the the survival of the the grape trees depended on our silence. our eyes grazing the tips of the olive trees that gave flavor to homemade bread at dinner. and the frogs that awaited our exit in the puddles of rain in the dirt. sprouting plants tried to push their way through but they struggled under the weight of the frogs. it was all so foreign, but rooted in my heritage. a part of me that people may never see, a part of me that is so precious because of its place that is so close to my heart. a little piece of the vineyard growing and thriving. its roots in my heart and its branches bending with the weight of healthy grapes into France and the hearts of my family.