We built the racks to hang the grapes but failed again and again. The fourth time the fruit crashed down we thought it best to reconsider. We paced beneath them —  boots crackling on the concrete still tacky with the juice of so much destroyed fruit —  and wondered what came next.

The art of drying persimmons, also known as Hoshigaki, is a meditation on preservation. Fruit is carefully collected, peeled without bruising, hung for weeks and massaged daily until sugars rise from the flesh and blossom on the exterior.

Chris and Amy harvested all of their persimmons for us, the cane still attached to the stem in so many perfect Ts. The tables were set under the racks with Dennis’ bonsai down the center. We left our shovels by the door, still muddy from planting trees. We shared ten peelers, two rolls of string and three times as many bottles of wine.

White knuckled and cackling, our hands sticky this time, not the floor. We draped the persimmons over the racks and smiled up at them from below. We watched as they shifted from shiny to matte and from deep orange to silver, rolled them first in our palms and then with a rolling pin until they felt like fat little wallets stuffed with cash.

The hoshigaki from that day are in little jars, high on a shelf, waiting for their moment on the table. We look up at them, remembering sometimes: we were lifted on that day, sweetly, in more ways than one.