Kiona Callihoo Ligvoet

the last of this harvest, 2021

Acrylic and graphite on canvas, soil and seeds from moshom’s garden, 24 x30 inches

 the last of this harvest savours the fondness of digging in the garden’s soil while visiting home on the land that my relatives still caretake. In late Fall, mom, moshom, and I walk together from the farmhouse to the garden, ginger ale and work gloves in hand, to gather the last bit of growth from hardeir potatoes and not-quite-yellow squash before the frost takes over. My moshom says this land is sacred. 

The garden sits beside a gravel road, separated by brambles of wild roses, and tall trees that moshom planted before we were born. We cuss and only partially joke about flipping off the settler farmer who bought the land across from us. When we were kids, my brother and I buried my moshom’s cigarettes beside my auntie’s raspberry bushes, and moshom just chuckled and never smoked again. Harvesting has always been a time for pranks and laughter and for wondering out loud.