Stolen Pomegranates When I was a young girl, my best friend and I would hop the chain-link fence at school and sneak onto the neighbor’s land to play in the pomegranate groves. The shrubby trees grew on the other side of an expanse of raw tilled earth. The man who owned the land loomed large in our imaginations, though we had never seen him, a shadowy figure, we knew only as Mr. Alexander. It was rumored that Mr. Alexander owned a shotgun and hated trespassers. Not only did this not stop us, it encouraged us. What better adventure than to run, heart pounding, over a dangerous open space, to arrive, victorious, breathless, in the safe shelter of shade and leaves— to risk one’s skin for a sweet, stolen fruit?