The quince tree was the kindest member of the family.
An old tree, to the right of the blue shallow pool, close to the wall that separated Grandmother's house from Ms. Gol's backyard. The quince tree's branches carried pale blossoms in spring and soft golden fruit in autumn.
Wide, generous crown. Crooked branches. Pear-shaped aromatic fruit that appeared every year in early October, as if it had been planning to gather the family for a few nights of happiness.
The courtyard was a quiet square of stone and sunlight in autumn, with large windows stretched across the house, their tall panes of colored glass catching the afternoon light, doing their best to make everything look luminous.
The old stone floors were smooth and cool beneath Nana’s feet, polished by generations of footsteps and grievances.
Autumn usually arrived quietly, turning the trees into a celebration of gold, amber, and rust.
Leaves loosened from the branches and danced through the crisp air before settling across the courtyard, layer upon layer, until the stone floors wore a golden carpet.
Nana, her little sister, and their older cousins ran through it barefoot, their laughter rising as the leaves crackled and squeaked beneath their feet.
From the kitchen came a delicious aroma of Grandmother's buttery Persian rice with saffron, and the deep, sweet scent of quince stew simmering on the stove.
Ms. Gol often sat on the other side of the wall, close enough that we could hear her calling to Grandmother, as though the wall had never really been there.
Everyone gathered around the kitchen table, cutting the quinces into pieces for jam, after harvesting them from the tree.
Someone washed the jars. Someone stirred the pot. Someone brought tea. For one day, everyone helped everyone.
No one argued.
No one slammed a door.
Even the relatives who usually avoided one another suddenly had things to say. Polite things.
The house became warm with the smell of quince and sugar.
Nana liked those days, because people were kind. For a little while, nobody seemed to remember why they were angry with each other. It was like a miracle!
“Maybe it’s the quince tree’s blessing spreading its goodness to everyone's heart,” Grandmother said to Nana once. “It’s a silent shower of golden light, my darling girl!” she continued.
Then the jars were filled.
The kitchen was cleaned.
The last spoon was washed.
And just like that, the kindness was over.
The house became quiet again.
Nana remembered looking at the quince tree through the living room's floor-to-ceiling window and thinking it was very clever.
It knew exactly how to get people together.
It just couldn't make them stay — yet it kept trying!
