Pomegranates

Whenever I think of pomegranates, Uncle John's face pops into my mind too. I remember the tree that we'd pluck them from, rushing them into the kitchen as he sets me on the counter. I put my feet into the sink and he carefully cuts open the fruit, red juice spilling out and running down the drain.
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He always warns me, "Careful." And I always nod my head, promising I will. We pluck the seeds out, one by one, savoring the juice that explodes out when we bite, leaving our teeth and hands a bit stained and the skin around my mouth need Comet to get the crimson marks off. I'm careful as I can be, but none the less, when I go home, I hear the screeches of mom as she looks at my red tinged clothes.
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I'm sure my sisters where somewhere, either in the pool or around the sink with us, eating the addicting fruit, but all I can remember is the taste of pomegranates and the sun on my face.
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A few years after we moved to Utah, Kayla and I received a package. We shook it, the gift being relatively heavy and wondering what our Uncle John could have sent us in this rectangular box.
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When we finally split it open, we find newspaper, but a glimpse of red catches my eye and I don't know if I squealed outwardly or not, but I can remember the memories coming back as I lift out four red pomegranates.
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It's almost impossible to find pomegranates in Utah, but when seeing pictures, I think of my Uncle John. I remember the past and the memories we have. Of going with my sisters and him to a ski lift in the summer, the four of us and him squished on a chair lift as up we go, looking over the grassy slopes and talking. We would be up there, two hours on the way there, two hours back. I always got to sit by him, either the way there or back, and I think it's these talks that made me and him so close.
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I remember our adventures. Hiking up to Timpanogous Caves, going to Sundance, Hogle Zoo, out to dinner at the Spaghetti Factory (we learned the hard way the day after Thanksgiving is the busiest) and I still have the few memories of gardening in the backyard (more like flooding it) and being wrapped tightly in towels as the sun sets on the days we swam.
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I don't know how it happens, but one by one, the sisters stop coming or are too far away to visit with Uncle John when he comes. So it's just me and him, and that's fine. We get ice cream, drive around the mountains and take short walks. We talk, and he tells me how he worries about me, like I'm one of his own kids.
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I'm not surprised, he's always been my fatherly figure.
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I love my step dad. He cares about me a lot, but is hard to figure out. I love my biological dad, but let's face it, I have no memories of him to comfort me. But my Uncle John, he's always giving me advice, asking how I'm doing, letting me know how he is, and lets me know he cares about me a lot.
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I'll always be a "kid" to him, and he'll always be "blond" to me. And if he dies before I do, I hope that when I do, he'll greet me with a hug and tell me what he's told me a million times. I'll even let him re-tell me that embarrassing story of how mom stripped me down right there in front of him the first time we went swimming in his pool when I was still in diapers, but only one time.
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...
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Thanks a lot, Mom.
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But seriously, I want to see him this summer. I want to visit him and take walks and talk about what's on my mind and have him tell me about how he's doing. I want to talk with him about everything and anything. From sunsets and flowers to eternal marriage and death. I want him to tell me everything, everything about anything he knows and to let him make up the stuff he doesn't.
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And if he dies before I do, I hope that when I do, he'll greet me with a hug and tell me what he's told me a million times.
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"I love you, kid."
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I love you too, Dad.