Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash

The Pomegranate

I put a pomegranate in his hands. His hands once strong and brown, long fingered, now rested empty of life. Closed. Wrapped like torn paper around the red plumpness of the fruit. I could feel the seeds resting like jewels beneath the thickness of the pomegranate’s rind. Thirteen pink paper hearts cut from what felt like my flesh I put in the pocket of his jacket, tweed I think it was, each one inscribed in gold with one of our names. And a book of poetry…