A year ago around this time I came back to Austin from Tehran. It seems like it was only yesterday that I was harvesting the heavily soot covered urban persimmons from the one lonely tree in my concrete Tehran backyard. They were so ripe that with the slightest amount of pressure to their skin, the balls of fruit would burst and ooze into an amorphous puddle of chaotic golden goo.
Its juices would flood hands and fingers, stain shirts and red winter cheeks, and wet the dry throats on cold snowy days. It would be impossible to manage one of these sweet dumplings without a plate, knife, and spoon. Like the persimmons, we too have spent the summer and fall waiting for this final ripening in the snow. I am sure that my lonely persimmon tree in Tehran will continue to bear fruit, and the future persimmons will naturally ripen again, and again, and again.