University of Northern Iowa

My Life as a PomegranateAuthor(s): Kevin BerlandSource: The North American Review, Vol. 291, No. 6 (Nov. - Dec., 2006), p. 15Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25150906 .

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JAMES T. McGOWAN

He blinked at me some more, his eyes huge and alert behind his

thick glasses. "Glioblastoma multiforme."

"How. Long." Dad's voice was clearer this time.

"It is impossible to be precise about such matters," Dr. Patel said.

"No one can know with any certainty, but treatment should begin as soon as possible, though, with the stroke, there might be some

delay. I will refer you to Dr. Gleason. A very good oncologist." When Eileen started peppering Dr. Patel with her questions, I

sort of tuned it all out. I kept turning the name over and over in

my mind, Glioblastoma multiforme, Glioblastoma multiforme,

hoping that if I said it enough times and in enough different ways, it would start to make some sense to me. My whole body felt as

though it were bathed in a stinging aura, the same kind of feeling

you get after a helmet-to-helmet tackle. The feeling stayed with me even after Dad went out for the night and the three of us left.

Once outside in St. Joe's parking lot, the

cold air felt terrific, and I unzipped my jacket so I could feel it even more. Eileen looped an

arm in mine and clasped one of Terrance's

hands as we made our way to their car, the

three of us silent, the snow squeaking under

our boots, the distant traffic sounds crisp in

the night air. The blurry blobs ofthe parking lot lights turned the plowed snow a sickly

white, and the strings of Christmas lights that ivied up and down the poles, blinking red, blue, green, rattled hollowly against the

poles in the slight breeze. When we reached

their car, Eileen folded herself into me in a

fierce hug, and I hugged her back just as

fiercely. Terrance stood off to the side, his

fingers stuffed into his back pockets, his head

tilted at the stark stars, his breath coming out

in short, bright bursts of air.

"Jesus Christ," Eileen said, her voice

muffled into my chest. "Of all the

goddamned things." I felt the sting in my eyes, the tears seeping

out and rolling down my cheeks. Eileen, too, started crying. We stayed that way until we

were cried out, Terrance coming over to pat

our backs, wrap his long, lean, hard arms

around us briefly. When Eileen leaned back

from me, she smeared the wetness from my cheeks and then from her own, her hands

very light. "You want to come with us? Back to our

place?"

"No," I said. "No. I better get home." I bent over and gave her a light peck on her fore

head. "I gotta call Mom. Let her know what's

going on."

"I already did. When I went to the bath room while we were still in there," she said,

jerking her head at the hospital, as though it were something that

deserved no better. "She's pretty broken up about it. I told her

you'd probably call later. You could do that from our place." "No," I said. Til call her from home."

I didn't, though. When I got home, once I was actually inside

the house, I wasn't up to doing anything. I drifted from room to

room, snapping on the lights, staring at the stuff inside, trying to

recall my dad doing specific things?powering the vacuum

cleaner back and forth, dusting furniture or mopping the kitchen

floor, shifting a couch here or a chair there, balling up newspaper to get a fire started in the fireplace?but it was all a mishmash of

random images, nothing I could tie them to specifically, my tenth

birthday, say, or the winter night the furnace broke, the day I left

for Lock Haven.

When I got to the kitchen, I got the Jameson's out ofthe pantry and poured myself a good tumbler of it, not even bothering with

KEVIN BERLAND

My life as a pomegranate

Everybody thinks this must be easy?hang around, get red,

get round, get redder still. Look closer: we are making

something, growing into future seasons, for the world

will come to an end when there are no more pomegranates.

Remember, it only took one bite, one little spurt of juice across the tongue, kernel not swallowed but spluttered out on the dark floor, to keep Persephone down in darkness

the best part of the year, and yet it's juice that drives the spring;

its lack brings winter. Without juice, jagged cracks open in the sun-dried earth, birds fall from the sky, apples turn

to dust, rivers give up, turtles wither, trees sink, and people

lie down alone in their narrow beds and do not find rest.

No, wait a minute, that wasn't what I was going to say. Start over.

I say the world is full of juice, which explains its excellent shape:

spherical, like so many ofthe best things, eggs and oranges,

raindrops, cherries, eyes, and pomegranates. Bad things

tend to come in boxes. Misery is edged. You can hurt yourself

knocking your knees and shins on the sharp corners of disappointment as you try to navigate its unlit rooms. Despair is gray. It has a jagged,

spiny surface. Hope is curved, alive and wet inside, and red.

November-December 2006 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 15

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