My great-grandmother Judith had a beautiful plum tree. In Bogotá, many houses once had “solares” – small patches of earth where grass, trees and wild shrubs thrived – tiny pockets of paradise for city birds like mirlas and copetones. Today, these homes are being replaced by tall buildings, their boxy apartments leaving no room for these green oases to exist. As a child, I disliked plums. But now, with my great-grandmother gone, I would give anything for a spoonful of plum sweet with arequipe. I hope that tree is still waiting for me when I return to Bogotá. A grown-up flavor, my family would say – why didn’t I eat more back then?

Then there’s my great-aunt Ligia’s garden, where, among the tangle of leaves and stems, golden gooseberries quietly ripened. Visiting her was a gift in itself, and those berries felt like part of the offering. Wrapped in their fragile, papery husks, they waited to be unwrapped like tiny presents. My cousin and I would pop them into our mouths in one bite, sweet and tart bursting on our tongues. With my aunt no longer here, I can only hope someone is tending to her patch of wild fruit.