The figs are ripening. I have begun the annual ritual of fighting both birds and ants for the sweet treats. Most of the time, I don't really mind.
I am regularly asked why I stay on the farm, where the work never ends and the responsibilities seem endless. It's my home, I always say. The truth is far more complicated.
The fig tree belonged to my Dad. During fig season, he devoured the fruit. He was willing to share. I wasn't willing to take even a small amount of something he loved so much.
When I look at the fig tree, I still see my Dad standing beside it eating figs one after another. That's a memory I treasure. I care for my Mother's wisteria because she asked me repeatedly to take care of it after she was gone. The memories comfort and soothe my heart.
I know. The memories are within me and I don't have to be here to have them. One day I may say goodbye and find something smaller, something with less land and fewer stairs. But not today. Right now I cherish the memories and understand something the experts have yet to learn: grief lingers long after others have moved on.
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