When a wasp is born and burrows her way through the walls of the fig, she has three days to find a new fruit in which to lay her eggs. Her male counterparts burrow out first, sacrificing themselves to the swarming ants.

Unscathed and coated in pollen, she begins her search for a place to rest. When the new fig is found, she climbs through the opening at the bottom. Barely wide enough to fit, she sacrifices her wings — signifying her imminent death. Inside, she sews new life.

The fig trees that decorated the backyard of my childhood home were sown by my great grandfather. The trees and their sweet fruit have acted as a source of connection between myself and the previous four generations who lived and died in this home - all people who touched and altered this place.

When my parents decided to move, I cried.

I grieved not only the loss of my place in this home but also the deep connection to my predecessors it cultivated. The day we moved out was the day I decided I would one day own this home and care for it until I, too, die.

I walk the same streets as the generations before me - through Eagle Rock, Highland Park, and Atwater Village - but the places they know are no longer there. Family owned bars are now luxury grocery stores; the deli’s, brunch spots. The ants linger on the thin, purple skin, but - in time - the wasp will emerge, eager to restore the balance.