By Samantha Davey
In August, the figs bloom in front of our house. Green buds became ripened ready-to- eat fruits.
Baba sat outside as the sun began to descend behind the mountains. She waited a year for the
figs. She sat in the plastic blue chair that left imprints on the back of your thighs if you sat for too
long. Ants crawled up the legs of the table where Baba’s piece of bread laid. She is focused on
the fig tree and forgets to ash her cigarette. Baba asked me to pick a single fig for her. She was
allergic to the fig milk and couldn’t do it herself. I walked down the concrete steps that led to the
tree. I immersed myself in the branches as I searched for the perfect one. Some were eaten by
birds; others became a home for insects. Hidden under the leaves, I found the one. The yellow-
green color stood out in the pink-orange sky. The fig was soft and ripe, the milk dripping from
the stem. I went back upstairs to present Baba with her fruit. I placed the fig next to her bread
and cigarettes, and her face sunk into a confused expression. “I don’t even like figs,” Baba said,
and she got up and walked away.