I asked her, Do you remember when your mom brought those pomegranates to church to share?

She did indeed.

They were splitting open, there were segments falling into pieces in a way I’d never seen before, dead ripe, and it was easy for a lot of people to sample a bit outside on the grass to confine the mess.

I had never tasted a pomegranate like that! I told her, And that’s why–

–as I handed her one I’d just harvested from my own. The tree I’d planted because her mom had taught me what a pomegranate could and should be. She had decided that 80 wasn’t too old to try to plant something new and hope for fruit and she most definitely got it: she came to within five days of 98.

I’ve never seen one so big! my friend exclaimed.

I don’t know if whoever bought her late mom’s house kept her tree, but the memory lives on at mine.