Before you gave birth we ate watermelon every night to feed the foreign cravings your body shouted and we wondered if our child would grow up pining for melons because the taste reminded her of a memory she can’t recall, of a crisp sweetness like budding daisies in a morning dew, the smell a sweet explosion in her mind that was both calming and tantalizing, crawling through her skin like citrusy molasses, the sight a fixation as unexplainable as a painter’s palette caressed with sharp colors mating, an unreasonable affection to a lost thought but perhaps only as unreasonable as the unyielding love we grew for her as we sat at the dinner table over small plates of the chilled pink flesh of watermelons before she was born, before she could taste, before she could remember, before she could see.



Leave a comment

Filed under Words

Comments are closed.