Persimmon Winter
by Annette Sisson

My parents moved us to a shabby house,
empty for a year after the old widow died,
tiding us over ‘til the new place was ready,
two months tops, then eight, September
through April. In a gunmetal Indiana winter,
hollow walls couldn’t hold what little

heat the furnace belched. Before November
my mother gathered buckets of persimmons
from a rangy tree in the side yard, deep-notched
bark, orbs of orange. In the fusty kitchen
she mixed up recipes her aunts swore by,
reached into brown paper sacks, squeezed

the fruit, told herself it was finally soft,
pulled sticky concoctions from the creaky
oven–pudding, cookies, slices broiled
with honey and cheese. We clenched our plates,
faces puckered, spat out the goo. No amount
of sugar could subdue the astringency.


 

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