I am making my way back to the house. Gravel is stealthily slipping into my dusty sandals. The sun is beating down on my back, the heat penetrating through my clothes. Young grape vines are crowding me on either side of the path. Their fingers are outstretched thankful for company. Small, plump grapes dangle like earrings from fickle branches. Waxy leaves shelter drips of water from the light sprinkle of rain they got the night before. Grasshoppers push their way through dirt refusing to budge. And then the fruit changed. Peaches bulge out of packages of green leaves. The sun reveales the soft texture of the fruit, soft as the lobe of my ear.
Just beyond the reach of the grape vineyards lay the peach orchards. The orchards are my favorite. They stand tall, old, wise. Their vains lace up strong trunks. One tree stands the tallest. It is in the middle of the orchard. Its roots in an entangled bundle at the foot of the tree. If I sit precisely in the right way, the roots transform into a big chair. Looking up, you can see the skeleton of the weathered tree. I can only see it sitting in that chair. I am the only one who could see older, withered leaves and broken branches. I am the only one who can see the newborn, sprouting leaves. Only me. Only I can 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 becomes restless. My feet find the knots nestled in the rough bark of the peach tree. My hands find tough branches. And I climb up the tree. Not climb, but fly. And then I reach the top. I crouch on the tallest branch. Looking like a vulture, I scan the horizon. And that is when I understood. That is 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 are smiling behind me. Their fresh perfume remaining in the stitching of my clothes. And when the the dust clears from my sauntering walk, you can 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 can distinctly smell breakfast, chocolate croissants, and freshly picked fruit. I sit down in an old wooden chair and run my fingers across the table that surpasses my own age. I can feel the years of hot sun and long days of harvesting. The vineyards are beautiful now, the sun hitting them just right. Their leaves a beacon of pure gold. I walk inside to get a cool glass of water. The condensation drips down my arm. It is eerily quiet but peaceful. An old stereo is running. No t.v. just piles of books. I like it that way. I walked upstairs to check if my cousins are awake but they are all sleeping, dreaming. I walk back down the tiled stairs without making a sound and slip back out the chipped-painted door but the hinges still bend and creak with old age. The sun is now fully awake, watching over the house and the grapes as if they were her own children. Breakfast is still teasing me, the smell taunting my nose. But I wait, it is tradition. I dive into the pool, just fresh water. Luke-warm water. Butterflies dance in the air, only me to watch them. And the plants are growing toward the pool deck, just to get a sip of that fresh water. Isabel stretches her arms and waits at the table. I get out of the pool and sit down. Nicholas and Jenna walk out of the door and slump into their chairs. Their eyes are still hazy and dreamy. Then my family stumbles out of bed with my aunt and uncle. Apricots, cherries, peaches, and pears are passed around. The croissants are gone. Only flakes of the pastry mark their existence on smooth colored plates and the smell of bitter chocolate lingering, faintly. We all sat at the table, a table that is now part of the family, of tradition. We are all quiet, as if the the survival of the the grape vines depend on our silence. Our eyes grazing the tips of the olive trees that give flavor to homemade bread at dinner. And the frogs that await our exit in the puddles of rain in the dirt. Sprouting plants try 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.
Purple Vineyards, Soft Orchards
I am making my way back to the house. Gravel is stealthily slipping into my dusty sandals. The sun is beating down on my back, the heat penetrating through my clothes. Young grape vines are crowding me on either side of the path. Their fingers are outstretched thankful for company. Small, plump grapes dangle like earrings from fickle branches. Waxy leaves shelter drips of water from the light sprinkle of rain they got the night before. Grasshoppers push their way through dirt refusing to budge. And then the fruit changed. Peaches bulge out of packages of green leaves. The sun reveales the soft texture of the fruit, soft as the lobe of my ear.
Just beyond the reach of the grape vineyards lay the peach orchards. The orchards are my favorite. They stand tall, old, wise. Their vains lace up strong trunks. One tree stands the tallest. It is in the middle of the orchard. Its roots in an entangled bundle at the foot of the tree. If I sit precisely in the right way, the roots transform into a big chair. Looking up, you can see the skeleton of the weathered tree. I can only see it sitting in that chair. I am the only one who could see older, withered leaves and broken branches. I am the only one who can see the newborn, sprouting leaves. Only me. Only I can 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 becomes restless. My feet find the knots nestled in the rough bark of the peach tree. My hands find tough branches. And I climb up the tree. Not climb, but fly. And then I reach the top. I crouch on the tallest branch. Looking like a vulture, I scan the horizon. And that is when I understood. That is 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 are smiling behind me. Their fresh perfume remaining in the stitching of my clothes. And when the the dust clears from my sauntering walk, you can 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 can distinctly smell breakfast, chocolate croissants, and freshly picked fruit. I sit down in an old wooden chair and run my fingers across the table that surpasses my own age. I can feel the years of hot sun and long days of harvesting. The vineyards are beautiful now, the sun hitting them just right. Their leaves a beacon of pure gold. I walk inside to get a cool glass of water. The condensation drips down my arm. It is eerily quiet but peaceful. An old stereo is running. No t.v. just piles of books. I like it that way. I walked upstairs to check if my cousins are awake but they are all sleeping, dreaming. I walk back down the tiled stairs without making a sound and slip back out the chipped-painted door but the hinges still bend and creak with old age. The sun is now fully awake, watching over the house and the grapes as if they were her own children. Breakfast is still teasing me, the smell taunting my nose. But I wait, it is tradition. I dive into the pool, just fresh water. Luke-warm water. Butterflies dance in the air, only me to watch them. And the plants are growing toward the pool deck, just to get a sip of that fresh water. Isabel stretches her arms and waits at the table. I get out of the pool and sit down. Nicholas and Jenna walk out of the door and slump into their chairs. Their eyes are still hazy and dreamy. Then my family stumbles out of bed with my aunt and uncle. Apricots, cherries, peaches, and pears are passed around. The croissants are gone. Only flakes of the pastry mark their existence on smooth colored plates and the smell of bitter chocolate lingering, faintly. We all sat at the table, a table that is now part of the family, of tradition. We are all quiet, as if the the survival of the the grape vines depend on our silence. Our eyes grazing the tips of the olive trees that give flavor to homemade bread at dinner. And the frogs that await our exit in the puddles of rain in the dirt. Sprouting plants try 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.
(the picture is the real place)