L u n a t a l k

Olives aren’t edible as they come off the tree. They need a good bit of processing. Who was the first person to figure out how to turn them from inedible, bitter tree litter into delectable morsels? And more to the point, where is he when you need him?

The quarter mile between my aunt’s house and my grandmother’s house is a grisly battlefield littered with the corpses of a million hapless olives They skitter and squish underfoot, shriveled, wounded or wholly flattened. They could have been contenders. They could have been delicious.

If you walk a little further, the olive trees give way to eucalyptus. Crunching through the drifts of leaves fills the air with a brisk, lemony scent that makes you walk a little taller, breath a little deeper.

It’s November. The end of the year is on the horizon, the wheel of days grinding into the station. I’m here to wave goodbye to my grandmother. If you had asked me to imagine what sitting by her bed at this time would be like, I would never have guessed how much laughter would be involved. We’ve looked at pictures, cracked jokes, teased, been teased and touched as much as possible. I couldn’t have predicted how precious the feel of her skin would be. Here is an olive well-cured by time and love, lemony crisp in the air. Delectable!

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