Fruit of Translation

I remember being in the living room last Fall, painting around 8pm. With the blinds wide open, a little kid catches my eye as he walked by the window and towards the front door. I opened it and greeted him before the little fellow had a chance to knock. He was about 5 years old, waist tall and his neck completely cocked back as he looked up at me. Making a little spherical shape with his hands then pointing at the tree, he says, "My grandpa wants to know if he can have some of those?" I look left and an older Hispanic gentleman(maybe in his 70s)had just walked up. He was smiling and waved at me. It was clear grandpa didn't speak English well and the little kid was acting as his interpreter and representative. I told him I had planned on leaving the remaining fruit on the tree for the birds and squirrels, but I had plenty already picked I could give them. He relayed that to his grandpa and both seemed excited. When I returned with a couple dozen in a bag, you could see the gratefulness as the old man showed me the small produce bag he brought with him, just hoping to get a few, compared to the bag I gave him.

Now, this wasn't suppose to be about how every year(after the leaves fall and expose the fruit) people knock on our door asking for persimmon, nor about how kind of a person I am for giving away fruit that grows by itself. The point of the story was that the little kid was me when I was his age. It was the surreal quality of seeing myself standing there, talking to myself. It was bizarre and also, completely uplifting. It triggered a sense of happiness and made me smile. I wanted to say happy Thanksgiving as the two walked away, but it seemed a little early so I just said, "Have a good night".

As I'm walking the yard this summer and inspecting the trees and their fruit, the abundantly growing persimmon, shows promise that I may get the honor of seeing them again, and I look forward to it.