the most beautiful thing: cherimoya ripening
Yesterday, I bought a cherimoya. My first, and the first of the season. Our season. Here. It isn’t quite ripe and now sits on the window sill in my bedroom watching the morning sun radiating ambient from the freshly-fallen snow. This Californian harbinger of spring, this reminder of new beginnings of green, reminder of cold nights of spilled wine and bourbon gone, yet still ending, still dripping out of my bones, still shadowed in the now-cleaned rug.
How did you eat it? With orange juice. As will I, the goodbyes and overs falling from my mouth with every bite. I am spotting the exits in the memories, biting and digesting them, the would-be cinching joys now the loosenings and lettings go. I walk through the pathways, too, the streets, the mental corridors, claiming these as my own. The cherimoya will have been a gift from you, much like her music, but it is mine now. Only mine on my pallet, in my ears. You will not taste what I taste and you will not hear what I hear.
The cherimoya waits for me. So does the family I will have without you. Also, the place I will stand someday where you are like a warm little eddy in breezes overshadowed by a great wind. I hope you do not read this. And if you read this, I hope you never let me know. This, too is mine and you may read it, but you will never read what I read.
Yesterday, I bought a cherimoya. Today, I watch it ripening as the nordic sings again and again, “It’s all over…”
Image sourced here: cherimoya flower