The olive trees have stood here
far longer than I have
by centuries.
The arborist who stops by doesn’t want
to trim them. I ask why and
he looks up at their leafy limbs and
shakes his head
with reverence,
Because they’re beautiful
and I’m an arborist!
But I’m a worrier, and so is my neighbor,
who sees their sprawling arms brushing my roof
as kindling for a wildfire.
The arborist chuckles:
No, no. Olives hold water.
In a fire, they’ll sneeze
Or burst into juice!
I hadn’t known that olive trees have such powers,
or that if burned to the ground,
they resurrect from their roots.
Wonderful.
They remember who they are.
When we moved here in 1995, for a few autumns,
the kids pluck olives, fill baskets with their tout skin,
each a bitter blessing
till cured
with salt and vinegar and hidden
in our dark garage for months.
The kids help until growing up becomes
distracting and then the baskets
are put away.
Now, every autumn, the olives drop uncelebrated
to the ground and
vanish into the leaf blower.
There’s grief in that.
A splitting in me, like bark under stress,
when I recall the simple joy of gathering
and curing—rinsing off the bitterness,
tucking the jars away.
Watching bitterness turn edible
And now to see the fruit so wasted.
And the kids have long moved on and
never mention these trees.
They speak now only of what they lack.
Want.
Some nights they feel like vines coiling
over me—not out of malice,
but of need.
Tonight I light a candle on the porch.
The flame wavers gold and
everything’s transfigured: trees, shadows,
the deep womb of my heart.
I remember their joy.
Mine too.
And in the flickering candle light, something
that feels holy returns.
This is the darkness olives need.
The cool, quiet dark that draws out
bitterness,
that softens and sweetens.
And preserves.
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