The fig tree

There's a fig tree downtown that I drive by often. Half of it grows on an old friend's old property that she used to own. I would always mention the tree to her when I would visit, especially when it was full of ripe fruit in late summer. She told me once "what's hers is mine" and I that I could harvest figs from the tree anytime, so I did.

There's a man downtown that I used to love. So much so that I thought he would love me back. He loved the friend with the fig tree instead. He didn't know how I felt, but she did. I never told her "What's mine is hers" but she went and loved him anyway.

I drove by the tree today and thought of my old friends, wishing them well. I had moved on from them like they had moved on from each other, all while the fig tree remained.

I parked nearby and grabbed a small basket from my trunk, walking toward the towering tree. As I picked the ripe fruit off of the branches I thought back to that season of my life and how to be chosen meant a lot more to me then than it does now.  Today I choose myself.

My basket was full.  I went home to make some jam and this time I didn't look back at the fig tree as I drove away.