When we moved to this property there were very few trees and sometimes in our minds’ memory it is still pasture. One huge, sterling tree is a Chinese big leaf magnolia that we transplanted as a seedling. I remember one of the last Thanksgivings that my dad made the trip to join us. His eyesight was failing but he was very happy to be here and have us cook the big meal. One morning he asked me to go retrieve the newspapers that had blown all over our yard. I had to tell him that what he was really seeing was the super large fall-beige-colored magnolia leaves. Virginia persimmon trees have also become a major presence in our local landscape. My dog loves to eat them no matter how astringent. I love to photograph them. Neighbors who grow non-native varieties gift us with plump fresh ones. My friend of many years who lives in California has sent me these beautiful dried ones. When these fruit gifts arrive I draw them to document them. I savor each one with the memories of the evolving landscape, long friendships, and the enjoyment of each variety.
This year, in the muddy lighting
of my parents’ cellar, I rummage, looking
for something I lost.
My father sits on the tired, wooden stairs,
black cane between his knees,
hand over hand, gripping the handle.
He’s so happy that I’ve come home.
I ask how his eyes are, a stupid question.
All gone, he answers.
Under some blankets, I find a box.
Inside the box I find three scrolls.
I sit beside him and untie
three paintings by my father:
Hibiscus leaf and a white flower.
Two cats preening.
Two persimmons, so full they want to drop from the cloth.
He raises both hands to touch the cloth,
asks, Which is this?
This is persimmons, Father.
Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.
–Li-Young Lee, excerpt from Persimmons, in Rose, BOA Editions