The Fruit I Harvest

I got caught red-handed yesterday at my Secret Fig Tree. You see, there was a recent change-of-owners of the shop on the property recently and I had not exactly cleared my "fig foraging" with the new owner. But I saw him yesterday, as both my paws were up in that tree, dropping the soft, ripe figs into that patchwork sachel my mother made for me.

"Good morning," he said suspiciously, peering around the corner, a hose in his hand as he washed down the outdoor patio.

"Oh, good morning!" I chirped cheerily. "I've been meaning to talk with you! I've been picking these figs for years. I mean, they get overripe and fall on the ground and make a mess. I perform a bit of a public service, I suppose . . ." I blabbered.

He stood silently for a moment, casting his eyes from me to the tree and back again. And finally, I saw the smallest bit of a smile creep into the edges of his lips. And he said, "I used to do that at my grandmother's house. . . Please, take as much as you want!"

Yes!

Only one problem. The figs are slowing down. Each day yields fewer and fewer. Whereas I used to stuff my bag and say to myself, "Stop. Stop. Don't be so greedy. Share with the birds, or at least leave some for Richard." Oh, yeah, Richard is head-over-heels about the figs as well. He's actually thinking of investing in a fig farm. Go, Richard.

Now, it's all I can do to fill a small bowl with them, and I've stopped going every day. Maybe only once every three days now. And they're getting smaller. The end is near, until next year. And, of course, this makes each fig like a jewel, more beautiful and precious than if the tree were still loaded with them. And that feeling of savoring, appreciating, taking not one bite for granted, that is the fruit I harvest each time. That is the nourishment I get from those figs.

The Fruit I Harvest