“That will do,” I say, plucking it from his palm. The seed has
taken on a reddish tinge. It will be many years before it can bear fruit,
before I can cut a piece of it to savor the memory. Carefully, I slip it back
into my pocket. With my other hand, I offer him the fruit.
He hesitates, then gently takes the fruit as if taking a baby. Turning it in his hands, he looks at it from all angles, runs a nail along the
skin, and observes the indentation it makes.
Finally, he takes a bite. He chews slowly, contemplatively, as if
deciphering every ounce of flavor. He frowns and runs a tongue over his
lips. The second bite comes faster, the third even more so, and by the
fourth bite he is devouring the fruit as if in panic, juice trickling down
the corners of his lips. When it is gone he stares at his sticky hands, a
smile slowly spreading across his face.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs. “I remember her now. How could I
have forgotten?”
Without another word he walks back to his car. No thank you, no
good bye. Memories are awkward things. Much like an improper blood
transfusi