My grandfather is cleaning up his shop,
fitting screws and nails into the right containers,
a long row of old jars and soup cans,
each with a different size screw
for every watch or necklace ever made.
I drop my bag near the workbench.
He’s coughing, but he reaches out his hand and smiles.
He spills the screws into my hand.
I’m good at finding the tiny slots for the smallest screws.
Make sure all the lids are closed tight,
we don’t want these falling everywhere.
I start to press the lids down on the long row,
but then the door opens.
Mrs. Li walks in.
Good afternoon, gentlemen.
A paper bag the size of a football in her hands.
Smiling, she walks straight up to me,
opens the bag, pulls out a huge, red fruit,
and holds it up in front of my eyes.
Do you know what this is?
I look at my grandfather,
who is polishing a metal cup.
I shake my head.
She hands it to me.
It’s as big as my hand,
and the outside is hard like a beetle shell,
or a baseball.
Inside, she says, are deep red seeds that pop into the sweetest juice.
It’s a pomegranate. It can soothe the skin on the inside.
Can you bring it to the Agbayanis?
She looks at my grandfather.
Tomorrow morning he can.
He smiles. Will you be joining us,
Mrs. Li? For Shabbos?
She puts the pomegranate
back into the bag and rolls it tightly.
Not tonight, she says,
and walks out of the store.