Magic

By Carrie Goller

She had a nice smile, standing there behind the counter and rolls of tissue paper. "It's all French!" she said as I glanced around the shoppe full of crisp, simple linen, eggshell blue saucers, lavender soap, and an odd array of tap handles. Pausing and admiring I spoke to her, asking about the week. It had been busy, Mother's Day. I listened and looked then caught sight of the star like pucker and brown-pink blush of small, dried pomegranates filling one of her bowls from Lourmarin. Stopping mid sentence I picked one up, holding it gently, captivated by its simple beauty. Still looking I asked, "Are these decorations or for sale?" There was a pause and looking up I saw her eyes, like mine fixed on the dried pod in my hand. "Someone asks me that everyday," she said gently, "just decorations, they came off the tree in my sisters yard." Her gaze still played over the full bowl between us. I put the pomegranate down softly, wistful. They were hers, she was under their spell. Her eyes smiled at me and I left the bowl alone, content they were being cherished, glad to have held one. Buying some olive soap I left her at the counter. I think she knows I'll be daydreaming of pomegranates.