Figs

Fotografia Olho de Gato

My mother made figs in wine —

poached with cloves, sometimes a few peppercorns.

Black figs, from our tree.

And the wine was red, the pepper left a taste of smoke in the syrup.

I used to feel I was in another country.

Before that, there’d be chicken.

In autumn, sometimes filled with wild mushrooms.

There wasn’t always time for that.

And the weather had to be right, just after the rain.

Sometimes it was just chicken, with a lemon inside.

She’d open the wine. Nothing special —

something she got from the neighbors.

I miss that wine — what I buy now doesn’t taste as good.

I make these things for my husband,

but he doesn’t like them.

He wants his mother’s dishes, but I don’t make them well.

When I try, I get angry —

He’s trying to turn me into a person I never was.

He thinks it’s a simple thing —

you cut up a chicken, throw a few tomatoes into the pan.

Garlic, if there’s garlic.

An hour later, you’re in paradise.

He thinks it’s my job to learn, not his job

to teach me. What my mother cooked, I don’t need to learn.

My hands already knew, just from smelling the cloves

while I did my homework.

When it was my turn, I was right. I did know.

The first time I tasted them, my childhood came back.

When we were young, it was different.

My husband and I — we were in love. All we ever wanted

was to touch each other.

He comes home, he’s tired.

Everything is hard — making money is hard, watching your body change

is hard. You can take these problems when you’re young —

something’s difficult for a while, but you’re confident.

If it doesn’t work out, you’ll do something else.

He minds summer most; the sun gets to him.

The grass turns dry, the garden is full of weeds and slugs —

It was the best time for us once.

The hours of light when he came home from work —

we’d turn them into hours of darkness.

Everything was a big secret —

even the things we said every night.

And slowly the sun would go down;

we’d see the lights of the city come on.

The nights were glossy with stars — stars

glittered above the high buildings.

Sometimes we’d light a candle.

But most nights, no. Most nights we’d lie there in the darkness,

with our arms around each other.

There was a sense you could control the light —

it was a wonderful feeling; you could make the whole room

bright again, or you could lie in the night air,

listening to the cars.

We’d get quiet after a while. The night would get quiet. 

But we didn’t sleep, we didn’t want to give up consciousness.

We had given the night permission to carry us along;

we lay there, not interfering. Hour after hour, each one 

listening to the other’s breath, watching the light change

in the window at the end of the bed —

whatever happened in that window,

we were in harmony with it.

Louise Glück