In the crate of ornaments not to be touched, rested in cotton my mother’s golden walnuts: glass, thinner than egg shells, easily shattered. She hung them from the boughs herself.
Real nuts, we ate on Advent evenings, sitting round the burning wreath, cracking hazelnuts and almonds, peeling tangerines. My father split the walnuts single-handed, then let us root out gnarled halves and pieces. Each nut, a mystery beneath its sealed shell.
I hate mysteries, my son proclaims one day. And yet, he sits all season snapping nuts, gathering pecans from the back lawn, separating the green and black or gnawed.
The tools—a toothed and silver hinge, a screw and lever, assorted picks—he places on the table. Some of the harvested will be rotten, some unripe. The best emerge from cocoons as rich as butter, most in shards and others whole. All of these will be put to use in pies and bread.
He works quietly, entirely focused on the task. On the oilcloth, a pile of husks easily swept away, and the delight of knowledge, gleaming brown and full of grace as a new pair of shoes.
There’s a stranger in the field of apples. Somebody’s hands have left a blush on the Staymans, have scattered half- rotten fruit in which wasps will burrow. Somebody’s presence has spun the sugar, banished bitterness from yellow cores. Pips have polished themselves like beaks of sparrows, Sweet Wines waxed tender.
Now is the time for us to climb ladders and fill a crate for our family’s pleasure. To hear the ticktock of falling fruit. To lighten the bearded branches.
Let husbands feel the round arms of their wives, and wives laugh in voices rich as custard.
Let there be shouting like shaken tambourines! Let the musician bring his fiddle!
The Quaker Meeting House in which we wed was shabby—its carpet faded Wedgewood blue, no festive flowers in a vase, or ribboned pews. But I loved the butter-yellow stucco walls, and the little graveyard at the back, ivy-grown, where only the tops of squat square stones shown grey above the vines. Beneath the eaves, we held for view our newly golden fingers, the charms through which we’d changed from two to one.
We knew a great thing had been done. We were to be each other’s rune and grail, trunk and totem, handkerchief and spoon. Forsaking sex with all others, refusing escape alone from trouble, we promised to cling to the human whom we’d named and kissed. And what a wonder that we did, and have, that years have proved us braver than we knew, and merry, too, love still searching out each other’s hands, as when, beneath the poplars’ summer green, we walked from vows to wedding cake and dancing, and cars drove in the street below the underpass, distracted, to their many destinations.
The same morning I press my shorn chest flat against an x-ray machine, my sister pushes from her body a baby girl. Praise God, whose hand passes over itself like river currents as it gives and takes, pulls one film from the whirring machine while pushing in a new, unprinted slide. Praise God for this fearful doubling, over which I will sometimes weep and curse. Little breathing at the still whole breast of my sister, little gold seed of death awakening as the first sun touches its tendrils.