There are three things I remember most about my mother. She was a crack shot–as they said then, loved rocks, and relished persimmons. While driving, she would say, “Bill, I saw a rock, stop the car! And my father–because he loved her–winked at me and stopped the car, and we got out and heaved the rock into the car. Now, at the solstice, in Mexico, at 7,000 feet, I have four persimmons on a west-facing windowsill. They are the large kind, flat at the stem, curving up and around to a point. They were the best thing at our old farm house in Sebastopol, California. The leaves had all fallen. The persimmons hung like ornaments. I loved looking at them. They connected me with my mother, my own glowing Day of the Dead tree. I picked them and let them ripen, placed them on the south-facing windowsill in the kitchen. At night the raccoons tried to climb the tree, slipping and sliding on the metal flashing I wrapped around the trunk. It is getting dark and cold right now. I watch the persimmons, glowing still. Reminding me. And soon I will eat them, one at a time.