Bitter Almonds
My mother found the letters
in a shoebox in a plastic tub in the garage,
like almonds hidden
under shell and hull,
when she needed space
for the furniture we’d have to move
before the window installers arrived.
I know almonds are perfect
because as a child I spent springs and summers
sitting in the wide-spread arms of an almond tree—
My sister, named like the holy ghost, on the limb above,
my brother, named like the patron of monks, on the limb below.
The three of us sat
under its low canopy, snapping the nuts
from among the shrubby leaves. My brother and sister looked
for caramel colored shells; I tugged
at the hulls to find the loosest and the most open.
We all peeled back the outer
layer, unzipping
the woody tabs from the peach pit bodies, pressing
down to break into the prize,
then dropping the refuse into the circle of moist earth beneath.
And almonds are perfect.
The sweet spring
from millennia of contact with human hands, rising
out of white blossoms, giving way
between the teeth like the soft wood of a sapling,
cool, wet, and endlessly yielding
before finally coming apart.
The bitter sprout
from trees unplanted, their blossoms pink
as the memory of blood, their tissues
dissolving into poison when crushed.
The differences between the two are few,
except for the blossoms, which must be seen
to be recognized—the bitter, broader and shorter in the nut,
the sweet, wider at the base of the leaves—
the things better noticed
by experience and by touch.
So my sister and my brother had the advantage, seeing
the white or pink petals as they glanced up
during the blossom months, while the distinction
for me was made under the branches themselves, time
after time, the leaves and nut
between my fingers, the kernels,
sweet or bitter as I took each
into my mouth, preparing
to swallow or spit them back out.
But this is not about the almonds—
It’s about the letters my mother found in the garage,
the twelve or fifteen envelopes tied
together in a ribbon under long-paid bills,
under old receipts and children’s artwork.
They were written thirty and forty years ago,
when my mother and father said here
and meant the land they’d come from,
when my sister and brother and I went to school,
none of us with enough
English to tell the world
we understood about books, hard work, art,
the things our kind were thought too stupid to know.
The letters were from that period of our lives.
They came on airplanes
with multiple stamps, written
in the home language from aunts, uncles, grandparents:
“Son, I took the tractor out to the field
for the first time today. It was faster than that old mule,
but the year hasn’t seen any rain,
and the avocados won’t be up to much.”
“Hello, I hope you don’t mind my writing
to you. I know I’m only a girl and only your sister-in-law,
but I was missing our kitchen afternoons, singing
to the radio, rolling out tortillas for my brother’s dinner,
talking about dresses and waltzes and hair.”
“My dear daughter, you’ve been in my heart
all day, like a presence,
and I wish I could hold you, so alone
in that big country, the children so small,
your husband in the hospital another week,”
“Sister, congratulations
on your new house. The hedge,
the back stoop, and the almond tree sound darling.”
“Brother, come home.
You can not raise your children
in a land where they can not know
how to tend avocado trees in a desert.”
“Oh God, mom had a stroke.
She was standing at the kitchen table when she fell,
on her feet one moment, on the tiles the next.”
My mother read
each of them out loud to me,
her voice cracking on the patio,
while we sat waiting
for the new windows to go in,
the ones I paid for from money I had earned
at a job I liked, just as I had
paid for the new roof, the air conditioning,
the tile, the stucco, and the fence.
She read them from beginning to end
while the men called out instructions, while we waited
for the sun to fold into itself.
She read
them, each fragile as a memory, blooming
into the voice of its sender from the greeting
till it closed, my mother lost
in each individual moment
while I smarted from the taste
of the unintentional, the final paragraph
of each letter, always the same,
like the scraps of a season’s harvest:
“Love to husband or wife,
hugs and kisses to the children,”
the daughter named like the holy spirit,
the son named like the patron of monks.
None mentioned the other child,
the one named after the patroness of lost things,
of miscarriages, of the unseen—
Except for the letter with the post script
that blessed my mother’s little angel
as if I were dead, not blind.
Ana Garza G'z |
levelheaded: Bitter Almonds
By creating a collage of line-ending words from “Bitter Almonds”— “hidden,” “rising,” “yielding,” “unseen”—we get an early hint that the poem’s narrative doubles as a complex extended metaphor. The speaker is after an unseen world and its hidden prizes. These prizes (spring, almonds, forgotten letters) are presented in a world often deceivingly mundane, a world where window installers symbolize a search for sight and moving furniture represents a mother’s need for both physical and mental “space.” The “hidden […] prize” attempting to rise, often “yielding” and at times “blooming” or “singing,” mirrors the speaker’s internal world, which fluctuates between “seen” and “unseen.” Like the almonds, the speaker’s internal self is yearning for something to “[peel] back the outer / layer […] to break into the prize.”
While almonds are a representation of both the speaker’s internal and external world, they don’t exclusively symbolize these realms. The letters found in a shoebox are also “like almonds hidden / under shell and hull.” The almonds, and the letters they are compared to, describe a complex relationship of a larger family with branches now geographically and culturally separated. The letters are sweet (“Sister, congratulations / on your new house. / [T]he almond tree sounds darling”) and bitter (“Brother, come home. / You can not raise your children / in a land where they can not know / how to tend avocado trees in a desert”). Here, almond and avocado trees represent the family’s contrasting worlds—one is in reach, the other is left behind.
The story of the children echoes that of the larger family. A tree bears the bitter and the sweet, highlighting the difference between them. One kind is “[t]he sweet spring / […] / cool, wet, and endlessly yielding.” Another is “[t]he bitter sprout / […] / dissolving into poison when crushed.” The difference is small but crucial: “The differences between the two are few, / except for the blossoms, which must be seen / to be recognized.” This process of recognition, for the speaker, is impossible. However, the difference is “better noticed / by experience and by touch”—areas in which the speaker seems to excel.
“Bitter Almonds” works subtly, without aiming to be cryptic. Some members of our editorial team realized early on that the speaker is blind. Others were surprised by the final line. For those of us who didn’t catch the early hints, a second read reveals the almonds also symbolize eyes. While almonds are reminiscent of eyes in shape and color, they are not eyes. That is, in a literal sense, they cannot see. As this poem proves, however, when considered deeply and presented delicately, almonds can lead to insight.
– The Editors