Written By: Lissa Lavey
I laughed at my grandfather’s funeral because he hated to see us cry. I spent the night before burning my fingers and pricking my hands with hot glue and roses to make a fitting tribute to a man who always brought light and laughter with him.
With my trade skills as a florist, it was the best way I could honor the man. It was almost meditative. While I knelt before the funeral pieces I was creating, my grandmother watched in mournful silence; I thought about family.
Being raised in an Italian-American culture, we were taught a lot about family - about our history, about our pride. A whole world, proudly and loudly living in the nooks and crannies of New York City. It’s seen at the Feast of San Gennaro every September in Little Italy, taking over streets with food stalls, so crowded you have to shuffle through the wonders.
You hear it in the accents and the names on roll call: about seven names for the boys to choose from (Nicholas, Christopher, Michael, Joseph, James, Matthew, and John; all of which are saints.) You smell it in the air - calamari, pasta, and sauce that might be called gravy depending on whether your family was Neapolitan or Sicilian.
But family to me is the fig tree.
There has always been something special about fig trees to me, their broad leaves often adorn artwork, and their precious fruit lasts mere days before spoiling. When we visited Ellis Island in grade school, I imagined our ancestors getting their names misspelled by whoever signed them into the book and welcomed them to America in a language they didn’t understand. Back before there were restrictions on what we could bring from anywhere, the fig tree came with them.
A little taste of home.
The fig tree is a symbol of where they were, who they were, and bringing it to a foreign land, to who they are. Despite the lack of greenery in New York, it’s pretty common to find fig trees, short and full, trimmed back to fit in the shoebox front yards. You’ll also find trees with branches reaching taller than the three-story apartment buildings, planted decades ago and given the love and care to grow. Fruit that’s respected by the casual passersby and left alone because the fruit belongs to those who put in the labor. My grandfather would tell me about how my great-grandfather grew the best garden, how he loved and cared for it like he loved and cared for his family.
Love and care. Space to grow.
I moved away from New York. I uprooted myself and moved to a little town in southern Indiana that I needed to circle on a map for the friends I left behind to find. The people had drawls and spoke slowly. The food was bland and was what I typically found only at the occasional barbeque in a tiny backyard. I couldn’t find my familiar spices, and ingredients I thought were commonplace I found in the International aisle—if I could find them at all. I certainly couldn’t find a bagel worth eating.
I got a fig tree.
I had moved to a foreign land. I didn’t speak their slow, syrupy language. One of the biggest cultural no-nos from up north was to waste another person’s time, yet here they spent others’ time like they had nowhere to go and nothing to do. I was told to slow down. They asked, “Why are you rushing? I can’t understand you, you talk too fast.” No sirens lulled me to sleep. No familiar food was easy to get. So like my forefathers, I got a fig tree.
A single stick with three little buds. I babied it, cherished it, and grew it in a pot so I could protect it from the harsh winters until it was ready to put its roots down. I decorated it with a mere four Christmas ornaments, all that its little branches could handle that first year. It grew into its pot, unfurling its broad leaves despite the howling wind. It stretched up to the scorching sun. It persevered.
My patience bore fruit. Literally. It grew in the ground, delights hidden under its green hands. Perfectly crisp with tender purple skin and sweet green flesh. I had never tasted anything better. Five years in Indiana and I had cultivated a taste of home. I cried. Sat by my little tree in between flat fields and grassy knolls and cried.
We moved back to New York a year later, leaving my little tree further out than my ancestors had gone. I had no room to plant it and no right to take it from the place it had taken root. I reunited with the friends who I had to give a map of where in the country I had been with open arms. Those relationships I nurtured, cared for, and gave love from afar on late-night FaceTimes and long calls while we ran errands together. I fall asleep to the call of sirens. Ingredients I had to grow or substitute are again at hand. I was home. I rejoined with the family I created and the place I fit.
I got another fig tree.
Meet the Author
Lissa Lavey
Elissa Lavey, Lissa, is a copywriter who uses her skill with a keyboard to bring compassion and awareness to topics often uncomfortable to discuss, especially fertility issues. Content in the role of Critter Mom and mentor to young creatives, she uses her personal experiences to break the silence around infertility so others can be more compassionate too.
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