A Pomegranate in Pieces

Mikaela B. S.

A Pomegranate in Pieces
What Matters Finalist 2024

Year 12 student Mikaela B. S. was named as a Finalist in the What Matters Writing Competition. This competition, organised by The Whitlam Institute, is open to school students in Years 5 - 12. It asks them to respond to the simple question, ‘what matters?’ with a fiction, non-fiction, poetry or prose piece of up to 600 words.

Mikaela’s writing piece is shown here:

A Pomegranate in Pieces
In Spanish, the word for pomegranate is granada. It is also the word for grenade. Grenades were designed with pomegranates in mind, the pellets of shrapnel resembling its ruby seeds. Why was a symbol of life and fertility kept in mind when forging a symbol of death and destruction? I thought of the blasts of grenades in films: in moments before, the camera panned to families laughing. It takes 2-6 seconds for a grenade to explode. But the blast of the grenade was sudden; thunderous, almost ripping through the screen. In 7 seconds, moments were obliterated. However the pomegranate, hanging from the evergreen branches of its tree, radiates beauty. Preserving moments; as the juices of its seeds leaked over your hands and you laughed with your family.

Through the stained glass of the hallway door, I watched you and my brother kneeled underneath the pomegranate tree. The sun reached its zenith, light cascading down and shining on the leaves of the bountiful tree. The crown jewel of the garden. "Renata!" I swung the door open, running into the garden collapsing into your warm embrace.

I watched you, guiding Vicente's hands clasped over a cerulean trowel, through the soils of the garden. You were a mother, but also a teacher, guiding and planting new life. The wind billowed, and dirt tumbled around causing Vicente to scrunch his face. Then you were laughing: a sweet sound that filled the tranquillity of the garden, accompanying the swaying of the pomegranate tree. And then we were all laughing; sharing a moment together underneath the pomegranate tree. The seed of a memory was planted with the first digs of the trowel and the last laughs together.

Not two to six seconds - months blurred together and I couldn't remember your sweet laugh as you became sick. The seed of a new memory was planted - Walking into your room, seeing your emaciated figure drowned by the frayed blankets. This was the last memory I had of you.

In seven months, you were gone.

In Spanish, "I miss you" is te extraño. Changing a single word, un extraño, means "a stranger". I stopped saying "I miss you", gazing at the pomegranate tree. Instead I wondered who the stranger, once kneeling under that tree was.

Winter encircled the garden with a bitter frost.
The pomegranate tree was bare of any jewels.

The garden was replenished with the warmth of Spring.
A pomegranate blossomed.

The pomegranate tree was lit by the lambent moon, the single fruit a twinkling star. From the beginning of time, humanity relied on stars as guidance. I hoped I would be guided towards you again, in the fruit of life.

I snatched the ruby star from its branch, cracking it open, lifting the lid of a jewellery box. Each chamber offered ripe seeds; jewels flushed with a deep mauve. I plucked a seed and lifted it to my mouth. A myriad of flavours exploded, like the shrapnel of a grenade. Instead of shattering this intimate moment, the explosion brought life. Conjuring the distant memories of you: we had shared the jewels of this fruit unlocking its lid together - as you tended to the garden with Vicente and I. The juice was sweet and tannic, reflecting the bitter reminiscence of these memories.

I welcomed these confusing sensations, taking my first step without you. The beauty of the pomegranate tree was timeless, celebrated as a symbol of life and fertility, in art and tales since the beginning of time. In the shreds of the moonlight, underneath the pomegranate tree, I remembered you. You were a timeless memory.

The school library has Mikaela's work on display.