Full Sun

One of the first things my grandfather taught me is that pear trees grow best in full sun.

Nana would dress me in overalls that matched Papa's. Patchwork denim covered the ripped spots around my knees, and the familiar clink of metal on metal would make me giggle as Nana slid the claps into place.

"Make sure you're back for lunch," Nana would say from her usual spot in front of the sink. She was often drying the recently washed dishes with a hand towel that had fruit trees on it, a reminder of our family's calling. Papa would lean in and press a messy kiss to her cheek and I would make a "yuck" sound in response. They would always whisper something to each other before parting, something I know in adulthood to be "I love you to the moon and back."

Papa would guide me outside, his hand in mine, as we walked to the grove. We would walk like that for twenty minutes, metal pails clinkling loudly against our hips until we reached our destination: the pear tree grove.

Papa would smile, picking up the ladder and setting it up in front of the nearest pear tree. "Now, how can we tell which pears are ready to harvest?"

I would smile brightly, gazing up at Papa as I started to climb the ladder. "If you pull on it gently and it falls away from the tree, they're ready to harvest. And then when they're in the house ripening, we check the neck!"

"That's right," he'd smiled down at me, handing me my pail as I reached the top. I could stay like that for hours, handling each pear, gently turning it over in my hands. I would pull gently on the firm fruits, closing my eyes and feeling into the movement. It became somewhat of a spiritual process for me, this repetition, where everything was the same and yet the outcomes could be so different.

---

There were the fruits that were perfectly rounded and plump, that readily fell away from the trees. I would save one or two for my own enjoyment, sitting down in the shade with Papa and digging in the luscious flesh. The rest would go in my pail for sale at the local farmer's market. As an adult, these fruits reminded me of the moments in life where everything is as it should be. Where the plan is being executed perfectly, or where the moments are bright and happy, where time stands still long enough for you to capture a memory you can hold onto.

There were also the fruits that were smaller and firmer, and held tightly to the tree when I tugged on their base. These were the fruits that were not quite ready for independence. I remember remarking as a teenager that I related to their reluctance to escape into the real world. There was a certain element of fear to them, an emotion which my Papa taught me is not entirely negative, but instead serves a purpose. These pears were not ready to be consumed just yet; had we taken them away from their safe place too early, their full purpose would not have been realized.

There were the fruits that were dark and shriveled, soft and fleshy. Too soft, Papa would note, saying that they weren't given all of the nutrients needed to flourish. I have experienced many times like these in my adulthood, as I'm sure we all have. The moments of darkness, of shame, of guilt — all of the inky emotions that we would rather not feel. But just like with the fruits that were not yet ready, Papa taught me that even these fruits could fulfill a purpose, if given the opportunity. We would take the fruits not fit for consumption and place them into a separate pail to be composted. The compost would be used for the development of new fruit groves — and so, in a beautiful symmetry, these pears still fulfilled a divine purpose; to be part of the growth cycle.

And what a beautiful metaphor that is for life.

It is not always about what is shiny and glimmering. The darkest parts of ourselves, of life, still serve a grand purpose.

---

Sitting at my office desk in the city, I often think about those hot summer days, where the hard work I did was all about connecting with the earth and being with my grandparents. I remember digging the soil out from underneath my fingernails and gently brushing the golden fruit off on my overalls before diving in to the succulent flesh, letting the juice dribble down my chin as I savoured every bite. I remember Papa would tell me stories as we worked, about his life growing up, about raising my father, about his relationship with Nana. He always told them with a fondness in his voice, reminding me that every part of my story is important. He would remind me of how to care for the trees, how each fruit has its own set of likes and dislikes, and how to prune the groves so that the trees were at their happiest.

Now, sitting in this hospital room with him, I realize that he has given me more knowledge in my 25 years on Earth than most people receive in their entire lives. I sit next to him, glancing around at the machines stationed around his bedside. I reach out to take his hand in mine. The familiar callouses brush against my skin and I smile.

"Do you remember the pear trees?"

I close my eyes for a brief moment, inhaling deeply and letting the wave of memories watch over me, just like he taught me all those years ago. "Yes Papa."

"Those were always your favorite," he murmurs. "You would take care of the other fruit trees like the loyal granddaughter you were, but there was something about the pear that called out to your soul."

"They grow best in full sun," I say, smiling as the tears start to fall.

"Just like you," he says quietly. Laila smiles even though a sob threatens to escape her throat.

"You were my sun, Papa."

He smiles lazily, clasping my hand in his and giving a gentle squeeze. "You are everything to me, Laila. I am so proud of you."

And so they sat there, just like that, thinking of the pear trees and the hot summer sun and the gentleness of youth, until the machine's beeping slowed to constant, and his fingers relaxed around hers.

"I love you," Laila whispers, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Always."