Sweet as a low voice wafting up to my window, that pomegranate my father brought in a Pyrex custard cup, puckery tart as a perfunctory peck on the cheek, bright as ten fingers wearing red nail polish waving in the sunshine. Mysterious, too, pile of rubies walled inside the thick hide of a red rhinoceros, and I never realized the lengthy mining trips Daddy went on to bring those bright seeds in the clear glass until I fight the whole creature on my own. Slice and pull, wiggle the seeds loose like baby teeth; they collapse and bleed, and soon red spatters stain the counter, the wall, the floor, and me. This is a good fruit to teach patience, I think, my impatience increasing while the seeds drop into a bowl like sand in an hourglass. And I try to picture Daddy doing this invisible exercise with his long pink fingers, maybe slow, surely neat, and me receiving the glowing seeds, the teaspoon ready, savoring the flavor but never quite tasting their message: This I give for love.