The Case of the Missing Grapes

July 15, 2024

Just the other morning, I had captured a photo of the ripening grapes hanging in bountiful clusters from the vine. Their lush green hue was transforming into a deep, luscious purple, a testament to the approaching harvest. I sent the photograph to the poet who had gifted me the vine a few years ago, eager to share the progress and the beauty of the fruit. The lowest bunch, in particular, caught my eye; it was almost ready for picking, its grapes gleaming with a promise of sweetness.

Early this morning, with garden shears in hand, I approached the vine to harvest that very bunch. Anticipation bubbled within me as I imagined the taste of the first grape of the season. But when I reached the vine, I froze. I rubbed my eyes and looked again. The grapes were gone. All that remained were the empty stems. Thinking the grapes might have ripened and fallen to the ground, I looked down to check.

Their skins were scattered beneath the vine. Someone must have eaten them just there under the vine, spitting out the skins. My mind raced, pondering who could have done this. I have been so careful, watching over the grapes each day, waiting for the perfect moment to pick them. And now they are gone. Only those who know the right timing can harvest. I knelt beside the vine, examining the ground. The skins were still fresh, glistening slightly in the morning dew. Whoever the culprit was, they had been here just before dawn. 

I looked for some kind of clues, such as footprints in the soft earth, to find out the culprit. Could it be a raccoon that climbed onto my deck and licked all the oil from the pan after the fish was grilled? Or could it be the mischievous squirrel that hangs upside down to steal the bird feed when it’s put out? Or maybe it's the fox that often wanders around even during the day? Clueless, I just look towards the forest adjoining the boundary of my yard. Whoever it is, they must be someone who knows good timing and how to enjoy the taste. Instead of hastily swallowing the grape whole with the skin, they peeled the skin off and ate only the sweet grape flesh.

Though I couldn’t taste the ripened grapes, I couldn't help but smile at the sight. The little thief had taken advantage of my garden's bounty, enjoying the fruits of my labor. As much as I was disappointed, I found it hard to be angry. The culprit had only done what came naturally. While the grapes I had so carefully nurtured were gone, I see more still hanging and ripening. The vine would continue to grow and bear fruit, and I would be there to tend to it. 

I sent the poet a text along with a photo of a grapevine with only bare branches left, describing the incident. As I stood in my garden that evening, watching the sunset cast a golden glow over the remaining grapes, I felt a sense of peace. The missing grapes are a reminder of the delicate balance between human and nature, a lesson in patience and gratitude. The vine would bear fruit again, and perhaps next time, I would be quicker to harvest them.

Until then, I would enjoy the mystery, ever watchful for the next poetic moment the garden would bring.