Watermelon

First, I have to say, I’m not the best fruit picker. People who know me know that I don’t shop much for groceries, and when I do, I don’t quite remember how much things should cost, nor do I pick the best fruits and vegetables. But at the farmers market a few weeks ago, I took my time to choose what I was hoping might be the “perfect” watermelon. I applied all of my learning: what I’d seen others do and all the reading I had done on selecting sweet fruit. I went about smelling, thumping, lifting and turning.

After spending what turned out to be an inordinate amount of time, I took the prize home and sliced it; first in half, then in quarters, and proceeded to cut the succulence into chunks, placing each one delicately into a large freezer bag. The next morning, we were to leave for a long trip to Wisconsin. We were driving, which meant packing snacks for my partner, young cousin and me. But the watermelon was for Granny—we had just gotten word that she was in the hospital, suffering from heart failure. And all I could think of before we left for the 13-plus-hour drive to Beloit, Wisconsin, was making sure I had watermelon for Granny.

When we arrived at the hospital the next day, my grandmother was very ill and appeared extremely frail. She hadn’t been eating well and could barely speak. After talking to her for a while, I opened the bag of watermelon, removed a small piece and touched it to her lips. She opened her mouth and I gently placed the chunk on her tongue. She was without her dentures, but she began to chew, the juice of the watermelon visible in her mouth.

As she chewed the fruit and as I reached into the bag again, my fingers seeking just the right-sized piece, I remembered our ritual. I was suddenly on the porch of the old house on Tower Street—the house where I lived the first four years of my life.

It was hot that day, and my grandmother was breaking chunks of watermelon with her hands, removing the seeds, and feeding the juicy fruit to me. When I was done chewing, I would open my mouth, our special language of trust, and she would place another sweet and salty piece on my tongue.

She continued to open her mouth to take in the juicy bits of melon. I had gotten the seedless variety.

She carefully removed each black seed before feeding me another piece—one for Granny and one for me.

In the dark of the hospital room, it was Granny and me again, perhaps for the last time, I couldn’t know. This time, she was the one trusting. I thought it might please her to know that I had learned my first lesson from her.

As I left the hospital that day, it occurred to me that my connection to watermelon, a fruit I rarely eat today, might change after Granny is gone—it may well become the thing I think of eating when I need to take care.