Jon found a cluster of wild persimmon trees on the far side of the property a few weeks ago. I guess they always grow in little groves like that. A kind of natural orchard. I’ve seen persimmon in the store before, but they look a little too much like tomatoes to seem appetizing to me. (Yes, I may be the only person in America who doesn’t love tomatoes.)
The deer love them, he told me.
I wanted to go up there to see them for myself, but things kept coming up. Life. Eventually, I did go, but that’s not the point of the story.
I can’t remember how or why, exactly, but we got into an enormous argument shortly after that exchange. In some absurd final act of defiance, Jon took everything out of the refrigerator and threw it onto the front lawn. Instead of the garbage.
I was stunned when I opened the refrigerator doors to find it completely stripped. Many of the items I’d just purchased the day before: butter, cheese, all gone. I was furious. We exchanged words and went to bed angry. Woke up angry. Went to work angry.
It’s exhausting to fight all the time. I used to apologize over these squabbles because I’d rationalize some way every time in which it had clearly been my fault until I realized how utterly and completely misguided that strategy was. I cannot be the only martyr in my relationship.
So now no one apologizes. Which is also incredibly unproductive.
But when I came home the next day, a persimmon branch, heavy with fruit, lay on the front step, waiting for me.
So that’s some dark part of love, all the things you can’t say for all the times you can’t say them.