Promegranate: Melinda Jean

Hanging. She had only seen it in the grocery store, but now in this tree of dark bark and the golden leaves mostly gone, there they all hung, like rosey pink lanterns. She wanted one. She always wanted one, the beauty of those glistening seeds held by the toughness of blushed leathery skin. And here it was on the very branches, the source, she thought. The craving filled her chest with heat. The tree stood at the edge of a deck, someone else's house. A small tree oddly shaped as it had twisted itself around the exterior walls, leaning. She studied how many, and tried to judge if someone would mind. More than a dozen and the shapes varied, small nut sizes to large ones higher up. The fruit attached itself to each branch in odd ways so they weren't all symmetrical like apples or oranges, but grew in sideways, their bottoms pointing in every direction. What if they were promised, each one to a different person, the unique shape of each placed in the perfect hand of one equal in beauty. She saw one that pulled her, she reached feeling the promegrante in hand and as she tugged it held tight and to pull harder might splinter the branch. She withdrew and felt the air deflate in her chest, a sadness. Leaving it would mean something was missing. She turned to find a door.