Courgettes
written by: Sofia Pal
Nonna’s flowers sing in the dwindling sunshine of late-August London. Throbbing tap shudders as mucky water drums into the basin, my fingers flush and raw, her own nails still stained dark from our overcast afternoon at the allotment. I was an extra pair of hands to dig and weed the patch. The old, grinning man in the adjacent plot had tapped my shoulder, thrust out his closed fist, produced a plump raspberry all for me. We’re home now with the loot: a plastic compost bag, 2 courgettes, a handful of runner beans soiled and crumbling. Now we shell peas and allow the oil to heat.
When I picture God, I picture Grandpa. Poised stonily, laden with twists of spider’s filament and debris, fuzzy when I think of his face. Like God, he knows everything, and he stays upstairs unless you call.
Our courgettes are diced and humming in the skillet’s lap. I shelter as it spits. At Nonna’s house, the television is on and muted, neon subtitles flickering in the periphery. She glances at it now, crosses the room, and calls up to him to come and say hello.
Before he got worse, my grandpa slept late into the afternoon and drove to the same restaurant each night. There’s a thing inside of him which necessitates clinical routine, precludes newness. He’s there again, as God in my mind, chalky hands reeking of dish soap. I wonder if the restaurant staff know that he is still here, upstairs, and sleeping.
Nonna creates an illusion of neatness in her small home by piling up her possessions and banishing them into corners and cupboards. But she is a hoarder, never lets go of anything, not least Grandpa’s dog-eared first editions from his lawyer days. At his funeral, mum will recall how she used to look up at him, walking on tiptoes to hold his hand. And that one time, so engrossed in his book, he walked right into a lamppost. I like collecting these things and pretending that they’re mine.
The floorboards shift, and he’s in the doorframe, a lean and grey God, stubble rough against my cheek. “How are you?” he asks. Twisting my sleeve, I feel grown up, reply, “I’m good.” But he frowns, scolds, “It’s better to say, ‘I’m well.’” Nonna lets our courgettes burn on purpose. They will be sticky, garlicky, sour, just how we like them.
- Courgettes - January 19, 2026
