wow, did this come out smutty...
Watermelon
There is something almost indecent about the first watermelon of the season. It is only a little darker than her tongue and vaguely reminiscent of other places she doesn’t think of at the kitchen table. She swears every time that she will be neat, but the juice gets out of hand every time. It’s the heat. It does that sometimes. Or at least, it’s hard to complain about getting wet. She takes a big bite. And, yet she remembers from biology, that this lovely pink flesh is not the point...it’s there to keep the vine alive. Something seems wrong about that.
Oh, my.
You know, Gayle Brandeis wrote a wonderful book called "Fruitflesh". All about women's erotica. Seems a nice bit of synchronicity.
I immediately thought of
The Botany of Desire
when I saw the drabble topic.
The unsophisticated Stringy mangoes were the province of the children.
They grow plentiful on large, not easily climbable trees. We pick them by flinging stones and avoid their unsurprisingly fibrous meat by pounding them unpeeled until their flesh is soft pulp, and suck the sunny sweetness through a small hole bitten in the tip. It's neat and efficient, well designed for mango eating competitions of the season. Eat and toss, eat and toss, racing each other and hiccoughing and laughing in the grass.
Time enough to steal a Bombay, East Indian or Julie from our parents when we were done.
My father had first right of refusal to everything from the Bombay tree. I realize in retrospect the symmetry -- it's a firm, neat mango, with a subtle and refined taste.
The tree is gone now, for practical reasons. Back then we could pick its fruit standing on the roof, and take it downstairs. A careful slice around its equator, a deft twist and the seed popped out, leaving you with two mango cups, lacking only ice cream.
He's a pragmatic man, only lately come to sentimentality. I wonder if he can miss the tree as much as I do.
ita, you're on fire with this drabble topic!
t not here. really not here
(one more) (thanks guys)
The best tree to climb was the Julie. It arched out more than it reached upwards, with branches more than wide enough for a diminutive child to sit and read, or pretend she was a lurking assassin.
I didn't climb for the mangoes - I climbed for the climb - to pretend I was somewhere else, born to a life wilder, of the jungle, or more refined, of English countryside.
And when I got distracted (because I always did) I became me again - slightly lazy, slightly disrespectful, definitely larcenous. They weren't mine to eat, but my mother wasn't watching, and I did.
Have you read Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl"? For some reason I keep thinking of it while reading your drabbles.
ita has a habit of making me wonder whether I colour my memories of the Caribbean too highly.
She also has the habit of answering the question for me. No. I don't.
Brava, love. Those are wonderful.
