In 2003 I spent New Year’s Day flying across the country to help my oldest daughter die at home.
She was skeletal from the cancer riddling her bones and internal organs. She had so much pain in her bowel movements that she was afraid to eat anything. I cooked for her anyway, and served tiny portions: she nibbled at the food, and then covered her plate with a napkin.
Before she stopped eating altogether on January 3rd, I had bought a pear at the store, and since it was off season, figured it came all the way from Chile, or Australia.
I peeled it, and cut it in bite sizes, and she ate it all. It was the perfect juicy just ripe fruit, soft enough not to hurt going down, and sweet enough to satisfy her chemo striken throat.
In the face of our national over eating, the memory of this perfect pear stands out over time to signify that pleasure and nurturing can come in small increments and leave a big impression.