THE PERSIMMON LADY

THE PERSIMMON LADY just beyond the sagging gate Mrs. Bodine’s old house stands, empty. in the back yard weathered persimmon trees stand guard over the garden’s remnants. leaves rust-red in October, ochre and bronze scatter down from the persimmon’s hard slender limbs. copper leaves slowly falling away, one by one their orange-red globes hanging on patiently. this display of ornaments hangs from nude branches as if Mrs. Bodine left them there to decorate the season. memory of persimmon's mellow sweetness permeates into my tongue taking me back to my cozy childhood. “Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted… sniff the bottoms…the sweet ones will be fragrant.” we gathered persimmons in yard-wide baskets filling them with mounds of just picked persimmons. autumn evenings spent eating persimmons with Mrs. Bodine, her fireplace warm and fragrant with wisdom and persimmon leaves. “Peel the skin tenderly, she said, “not tearing the meat. Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat.” the meat of the fruit sweet and jelly-soft, a luscious topping for her crisp buttered bread. like its namesake, Persimmon Tree is sweet, evocative~ consume all of it taking it to one’s heart.