But it also reminds me of my grandmother who I called Nanny, which I’d like to believe is why he sent it and it probably is part of the reason. Although, I must say that my dad is known for his unique gifts. One year it was a jar of sorghum for Christmas. I’m not sure I’ve ever tried sorghum. Harry’s gotten tie-downs for the car.  Even though we weren’t moving or planning to haul anything. You just never know what to expect from Dad when it’s time to give gifts. And for the most part, I just accept it as a quirk.

Anytime I find myself confused about one of Dad’s gifts, I can hear his voice in my ears, “You give people what you want them to have. Not what they want,” and it all makes sense. An interesting philosophy of gift-giving and one that I’m fairly certain Emerson would have to agree with.

But, back to the pomegranate…Nanny was my dad’s mother and she had a pomegranate tree in her backyard and I can’t help but think of her when I see one. It reminds me of playing in her backyard before she was sick. It reminds me of a woman of determination, independence and beauty.

So, the pomegranate: a current juice trend that promises to lower blood pressure and decrease chances of breast cancer, a festival in Azerbaijan, a symbol of fertility, an object of religious imagery… and sweet nostalgia for me.

It may have been different, but I’ll never forget being in the nursing home that afternoon.  My mom, the amazing unstump-able pianist that she is played every song suggested to her–mostly old hymns like “Old Rugged Cross,” “How Great Thou Art,” “Great is Thy Faithfulness,” and “My Jesus, I Love Thee.”  After we sang “My Jesus, I Love Thee,” my grandmother said, “Now that was an old one.” We didn’t know Evelyn before that afternoon, but she sang her heart out. 

My grandmother doesn’t remember why she’s at the nursing home.  Or the fact that her sisters have passed away.  Or how to plant flowers like she used to do every year.  Or how to make chicken n’ dumplin’s. Or that the 30 cards on the wall were in honor of her birthday.  Or that her legs won’t work the same way they used to and she shouldn’t try to stand without help.  Or how to eat enough food to nourish her body.  Or that she shouldn’t be worried about me and Harry finding a place to sit, food to eat or calling my mom to tell her that we made it safely.  She doesn’t remember the Scriptures she had committed to memory without prompting.  

But she remembers the songs and she sings.  At 91, she sings the sweet melodies and harmonies that she’s sung all her life at perfect pitch.  

She remembers how to laugh most of the time.

And she remembers us.  And that’s enough.