In my yard there grows an “antique” pomegranate tree. Its arms are outspread and it is proud and fruitful. As though to majestically call out “look at me, how I am strong and beautiful”.
It doesn’t require much care. Water is plentiful and fertilizer isn’t needed. It is full of bright and smiling pomegranates. It refreshes the soul after every hot summer. Year after year it grows and I am so grateful.
Last year, in early fall, I noticed a dry pomegranate that had fallen to the ground. I picked it up and its dryness and hardship cried out from my palm. This was the first time that I saw a crying pomegranate. I picked more dried pomegranates like this one and began photographing them intensively. As if expressing a common suffering of the pomegranates and me on what had been. Their physical pain joined with mine after the death due to a severe illness of my youngest sister.