In Gathering Grapes and Grief

I fell apart yesterday. Along with the body, this body, my body, pulling herself together, my heart cracked and crumpled. A break-up. My choice. My clarity for life moving forward. Clarity to know who and what I will allow access to me based on love, kindness, compassion. My choice—not rash nor emotional—but a series of linked behaviors, especially during and directly following my ICU stay.

The grapes ready themselves. They fascinate me with their way. The bunch of them living in different stages on shared stem. Some ripe. Others raisened. A few maintain their hard green selves. It takes me two hours to gather twenty pounds. I’ve still a second grapevine to tend.

When I fell apart yesterday, I cried my long drive home from the Saturday market. I met friends at the market, bought sourdough bagels and tomatoes and lobster mushrooms. I’m usually satiated by the vibe of concessions—all this community sharing common values of preservation and organic living. And I was. Satiated. Until I was not. The grief over potential future and current loss began its process.

After washing my grapes, I pluck and pack the ripest to freeze for smoothies. The raisins find their way to a mason jar and the green beads move to compost. Matt Berninger plays in the background while my seventeen-year-old fries home-made battered onion rings. The heavy aroma of oil and pepper lingers in light smoke. Or perhaps my vision clouds. I’m not sure.