Watermelon season

My dad died during watermelon season, and the fourth of July was around the corner.

Much about this season is heavy, languid:

The branches sagging heavily with deep green leaves, the humidity resting tired in the air, the heat slowing our bodies.

The grief was also extraordinarily heavy. I would forget why I walked into a room, lost in my thoughts. I exhausted easily. A haze clouded my thoughts, slowing me down. I did very little.

I remember when my mom sliced the last watermelon Dad bought. It needed to be eaten. He hadn’t been gone long.

She stood at the counter. She paused, wiping her tears away, then continued slicing the bulky thing.

I thought, why are these so hard to handle? Why did Dad die? This isn’t fair. I want to disappear. I can’t handle this. I’ll never eat watermelon again.

My mom continued to cry silently in the kitchen, lost in thought, in a haze, languid, balancing the heavy watermelon on the counter with one hand, the other holding a knife. I’m not sure if she realized I was sitting just an arm’s length away at the dining table.

I watched as the juice trickled off the counter, drip by drip, overflowing on the cutting board, onto the hardwood floors. I couldn’t move. I just watched it fall for what seemed like a long time. I can’t remember if I hugged my mom, or told her, I know. The memories still hang heavy, opaque like a summer night’s fog.

Last night, I cut up my first watermelon. And there I was, four years later. In my kitchen. I paused, felt the wooden handle in my hand, my dad’s old knife. I carefully carved around the deep green skin, revealing the brightest, most luscious pink flesh inside. I took a bite. It was so refreshing, so good. I paused and wiped a few tears away.

The juice overflowed again, falling onto the hardwood floor. I ignored it only briefly this time.