When I didn’t recognize a word in my grandma’s kitchen it was usually because it was either a bad word, or something in Swedish, or on occasion, both. And so I thought it was with “fig.” What I had learned so far was that it flew, and we didn’t have any to give. 

We are surrounded by fig trees now. As plentiful as the apple trees on my grandparents’ farm. And as certain as the limb is to the bird, I know some things for sure. 

With time, the things that make me care seem to change. Tears and laughter often reverse their roles. The world switches from big to small depending on the uncertainties that surround us, while comfort packs its bags and moves from place to place, never leaving a forwarding address. But though the impermanence of people and feelings, you stay as slow, as warm and as forever as children’s summer laughter. You remain a part of my heart’s truth, the part that doesn’t get crushed beneath the weight of time passing, the part I give thanks for, every day.

I land on morning’s limb, everything to give.