my pappou gathered things like

bags of dirt    netting    wood poles

all that he found on roadsides.

he collected like he was saving

like he was planning something

something big

something extraordinary.

our garage became a reserve

forty years in the making

waiting to be used     to be unleashed.

we’d all complain about his junk

pouring out the garage door

damn nearly hitting the dog.

until it started to deplete

like each piece of scrap

slithered away

ashamed after hearing our scorn.

a few days later

he must’ve done the same

because he did not awake

for coffee or for koulourakia.

but there in his garden

sprouted a stout tree

with outreaching limbs

strangely akin to his own

even wearing his rings

holding a dark violet

dumpling-shaped fruit

and as I ran

my finger

up

its stem

it

let

go

and

down

fell

this edible oval

onto roadside dirt.

so

I did what he would have

and collected it.

it sat bedside for five days

living a life just like his:

     waking to blinding sun

     hobbling from place to place

     deafened by nature docos

all until it grew a spot I called a tumour–

then I knew what I needed to do.

on its final night

I scooped it up

just as I did when we first met

and brought it to the kitchen

torn it open like a chocolate

and scraped out its innards

with my bare hands

stuffing it in my mouth

licking my fingers after each dig

until all that remained

was its slimy spotted husk.

when I was finished 

devouring it

I dropped its peel

to the ground

ready to abandon it

           until

I found myself in the garden

and dug with my hands

like the dog

and tossed the skin

straight in

and covered it

with roadside dirt

hoping to

give him back

what he lent me.