The Fig Tree

Sensitive Content Warning: This story explores grief.

Maria searched through the leaves for green or purple bulbs of figs, but there was no fruit and there would be no fruit this summer.

Good, Maria thought, but continued her search. Most of the leaves had wilted in the late sun. Some had browned. The color of death appeared like a burnt stain for the world to see. Maria glanced at her arms, at the blue veins running through her wrinkled skin as if her limbs still had a purpose. She looked back at the brown leaves with envy.

This fig tree was almost as old as her marriage, Maria considered. Before this summer, it hadn’t occurred to her that the fig tree had been aging, too.

Raymond had planted it, all those decades ago, as a surprise. Maria remembered her husband guiding her steps as he covered her eyes. They walked slowly, carefully, as if he was taking Maria along the edge of a mountain and not a suburban yard. Maria breathed through the darkness, unsure of what the absence of his hands would reveal.

“You didn’t paint the shutters without me, did you?” Maria asked, and Raymond laughed.

“We make decisions together,” he said, reiterating their promise.

When he uncovered Maria’s eyes, she saw the fig tree. It was no taller than her knee, but a green fruit, smaller than her fist, was already growing from its branch.

“Welcome home,” he said. When Maria looked at him, she felt it was true.

Maria smiled, but the expression couldn’t stop her worries. “Will it survive the winters here?”

Maria had grown up with a fig tree in her backyard. After school, Maria’s mother would often send her outside to play, as all the mothers in the neighborhood did back then.

“Tesoruccio mio,” she’d greet the tree, before plucking a ripe fig. Their yard wasn’t large. The fig tree claimed nearly half the space, but it took its role as the backyard guardian seriously. It offered shade for her childhood fantasies of wilderness and adventure. But that had been a lifetime ago, before the world had declared war.

“With enough care, she’ll survive. You’ll see,” Raymond had replied.

Every summer since, Raymond would spend his mornings checking on the fig tree. The leaves were a language that Raymond had learned, and so he always knew what the fig tree needed. The sapling grew fast. Through the kitchen window, Maria would watch her children gather the fallen fruit until their chubby, inexperienced arms overflowed. They’d bring their edible treasures to Maria for her to wash and prepare. Maria would kiss their purple-stained cheeks and feel as though she was kissing the younger version of herself who had once believed in magic and dreams. Sometimes, Maria felt like her own mother was there, embracing them, and maybe even her mother’s mother, and the memories of life’s terrors felt small compared to the taste of what was sweet.

Maria suddenly felt a sharp pain in her chest. She placed her trembling hand over her heart, but it wasn’t the touch her body longed for. Her gaze fell to the growing shadows on the ground. She imagined lying down. The dirt would feel soft and the sun would feel warm, but not too warm. The fig tree would provide shade, so that she’d be held in a perfect balance of temperatures, as if she was a child again.

Maria continued to study the shadows below. What would happen if she followed her longing for the ground? This time, it would be difficult, probably impossible, for her body to get back up. The pain in her chest started to dull. Her body began to relax, and she almost felt her knees giving in, when she heard the faint call of her name. The sound had floated through the windows of the kitchen. It had been so faint, Maria wondered if it had happened at all. She stared through the windows, imagining Raymond in the kitchen, stirring his Sunday gravy.

Was it dinnertime already?

Her stomach growled, angry that she hadn’t eaten. The last meal she could remember was a frozen lasagna her daughter had brought over, but that had at least been a day ago.

She glanced from the ground to the door of the sunroom. Sleep or eat. The sound of cicadas urged her to decide. She glanced past the fig tree, at the descending sun. Daylight was taking its final breath across the sky, with its hellish flames of orange and red. The shadows stretched its fingers across the yard, ready to consume anything that lingered.

Maria shook her head at the lifeless, dry grass below.

This yard had once been the pride and joy of her and Raymond’s home. Countless hours had been spent making bargains between the sun and the shadows and the seeds. Not every plant survived, especially at the beginning of their gardening. Maria still thought about those seeds that never sprouted and wondered what had happened to them.

But many plants did survive, and soon their yard had grown into a brilliant display of color and care and life. Maria would water the wildflowers while Raymond pulled the weeds. Butterflies and bees would visit every season, as if to give thanks. It started to feel like their yard would never run out of strength. Maybe it had been absorbing the strength of their passing youth this whole time. Every summer, their bodies grew more incapable, and the work became more relentless, until one summer, they had let it grow, undisturbed. They’d sit in their sunroom, sipping their coffee, and debate who would win: the wildflowers or weeds. Then some neighbor had complained to the township, and Raymond and Maria had agreed to mow it all down. It had been an unimaginative day, but Raymond and Maria still sat in their sunroom, together. They no longer debated about the wildflowers and weeds but tried to pinpoint which nosy neighbor had ratted them out. Raymond would joke about haunting the homes of the neighborhood when the inevitable grim reaper came knocking. It would be the best revenge, he would claim, and they would laugh. Finding humor on the edge of life and death felt defiant.

A sigh left Maria’s body as she finished glaring at the empty, mowed yard. She crossed the dry grass and turned the handle to the sunroom’s door. What was she going inside for? Ah yes, Raymond had been calling her name. Dinner must be ready.

Smells of onion and oregano struck her senses. She stood in the sunroom with closed eyes, her chest rising and falling as she inhaled the scent of something that had been made with time. A grin spread across her face, as she imagined Raymond hunched over the stove, his wooden spoon in hand as he stirred his creation. Their kids used to come home from sports, or music, and their energy would settle into contentment any time they realized their father had been making his special gravy. Everyone would gather around the kitchen table and share their stories. Their children would tell their tales of school. Friends vs. foes. Nice teachers vs. mean ones. Maria and Raymond alternated between different roles for their children’s lives. Sometimes, they were an admiring audience. Other times, a firm director or a gentle coach. Sometimes, they didn’t know what role they should play, but it always felt okay. Maria would wash all the dirty dishes and clear the never-ending clutter from the countertops. Raymond would help their children drift asleep. They'd meet in the kitchen, pour themselves a glass of wine, and breathe.

Eventually, their breaths would transform into words, and they would be talking, talking, sometimes late into the night. They’d talk about an upcoming wedding for a nephew, a baptism next Sunday, and did you pick up the dry cleaning? Do we need to get more groceries? Your mother’s stopping by this week, and you know she enjoys her coffee with cake. They’d flip through magazines and imagine the renovations they should do for the sunroom. All the parties they could host in there, if only they cleaned it out and bought a long table with many chairs. Enough to host both their families and all their friends. There were so many people back then! They would look through their finances and call up their siblings to plan the next casino trip in Atlantic City. Maybe we’ll win big this time, could you imagine? They’d talk about what they would do with their riches. Raymond would buy a villa in Maria’s hometown. Her childhood home hadn’t escaped the bombs of war, but they had heard that Italy was rebuilding everything. Maria would laugh and say she needed nothing. She missed her home, yes, but what can you do? America had become her new home, and she had been blessed here.

What she had meant was: Raymond, you are my home.

Raymond, you are my home, Maria repeated the thought in her head.

Had she ever spoken these words out loud? Had she known these words before now? Maria felt her mind racing, searching for a memory that didn’t exist. The string of words felt embedded in her soul, as if they weren’t just a feeling, but a fact she had finally remembered.

Maria opened her eyes and realized she was standing in the sunroom. The long table stared back at her. The wood was still covered with tablecloth. Shades of pastels were stained with spots of oil and dark liquids. Maria tried to remember if the colors of the cloth had always been pale, or if the sun had taken its brightness back once again.

Maria couldn’t remember the last celebration they had held in this sunroom. Maybe it had been a birthday. There were so many birthdays. Yes, there were.

If only she had known it was the last celebration, then maybe she would have remembered, or cherished the moment more.

“Raymond?” she called. She felt an urgency to talk to him. Ask him why their fig tree had suddenly stopped producing fruit. He’d read the leaves and know what to do. She wanted to gossip about the neighbor who had turned their front yard wilderness into a dry grass desert. Had they ever figured out who it was? It must have been Mr. Anderson, right? He was always out, peering into people’s yards under the guise of walking his dog. She wanted to ask him about the last time they had thrown a celebration in this house, and maybe they could do it one more time. It would be a lot of work, but maybe their kids could help. None of their siblings or friends would be able to make it, of course, but they would laugh. Of course, they would laugh. Their siblings and friends were in heaven, but they were here, living at the edge between life and death.

Maria walked through the sunroom. Her steps were quicker than usual, as if they were trying to keep pace with her heart. For a moment, the swiftness of her steps made her worried that she would lose her balance the way her mother had, and there would be no one left to find her. But she had things to tell Raymond! She passed the two empty rocking chairs, each one sagging with different weights, and turned the handle to the kitchen door.

“Raymond,” she said again, but his name was released as a whisper once she swung open the door.

The stove was turned off. The countertops were cleared. All of the dishes were put away.

For a brief moment, Maria was angry that she had bothered to come inside, let alone open her eyes. She wanted to fling open the cabinets and break every dish. Scream into the void of their now-empty home.

You said we would make decisions together! Well, I didn’t agree to be left alone like this.

She closed her eyes, trying to dull her senses as if it would summon his presence. All she was left with were memories she wanted to live inside but could only walk through.

When she opened her eyes, her gaze landed on the curtains of the kitchen window. She walked towards the curtains and pulled them apart to reveal the darkening skies outside. The fig tree was still there, wilting and browning, but alive with its grief.

“Welcome home,” the memory of Raymond’s voice played through her head.

Finally, she told him, or maybe it was his soul, or his memory, or his ghost: “You are my home, Raymond.” She kept her eyes on the fig tree as she spoke the words. “You will always be my home.”

Well then, the words slipped into her mind, and for the first time all summer, she felt her mouth curl into its memory of a smile, you’ll have to learn the language of the leaves.