My Mom and Our Bowl of Fruit
Mom and I sit across the counter from each other, a bowl of fruit between us. She slides it toward me so I can reach a piece, my feet dangling from the stool. I choose carefully, picking a color that looks bright and cheery like her. She can’t see my choice, but she smiles, pulls one out for herself, and takes a big bite. She loves fruit. Not as much as she loves me, but still a lot. I blabber on about the book I’m reading and the things my Polly Pockets did today and she listens like I am the most important person in the world. Maybe I am. We sing together. I look down at the fruit in my hand that I’ve been too busy talking to bite.
Mom, what does fruit taste like?
She looks confused — surely you must know what fruit tastes like my little daughter — but she acquiesces as always,
Fruit is simple, my girl. It has a smooth, shiny skin and it didn’t take me long to figure out that I had to just bite in and the skin would break easily and inside would be sweet. Sometimes there are mealy spots. but God says we can just cut those off and trust in Him and the rest will be good.
Mom, I’m sorry to interrupt but I can’t bite through this skin - it’s so tough and has ridges and my teeth don’t go through.
What? No, just bite a little harder. Maybe your skin is just a little tougher. You can do it; you’re my strong girl.
I can’t. It tastes like dirt in my mouth when I bite it and it hurts my teeth to keep pushing. I’m sorry, I can’t.
I get frustrated that she doesn’t see my fruit the way I do. I worry I am as oblivious as she is. I worry that I’m disappointing her. I wonder why my fruit doesn’t crunch and give way to my mouth like hers.
She stops eating her fruit and wipes the juice off her lips, because she cannot enjoy something if I can’t enjoy it too. She’s distressed that I’m struggling, that my fruit isn’t working the same, that she cannot help. Not being able to help destroys her.
So I start scratching at my fruit, desperately, trying to open it to calm her. Pieces of it come away under my fingers. A little juice squirts out and I see flesh, but my relief immediately careens into a wince as the juice finds a cut in my hand and stings it. I hold my tears back because I don’t want Mom to feel worse and I keep picking at my fruit, obsessed with finding a place to bite in so I can tell Mom just how sweet it is. So I can experience the sweetness she does.
She watches and tries to hide her tears from me, but I see them soak into her fruit. Suddenly I find the soft part and suck it in. It slaps my tongue and makes my eyes almost water.
It’s sour, Mom!
Sour? No. It’s so sweet. Oh gosh, I’m so sorry I gave you this fruit, it's my fault, let me fix it.
No, no. It’s kind of sweet… I guess… maybe. I like it!
Let me fix it. Have mine.
I tell her I’m not hungry anymore.
My body grows and we both think maybe my tastebuds will be fixed when it does. The fruit will be soft and sweet when I’m older. Instead I get tougher. I keep eating the fruit that stings me. I tell Mom all about it and she smoothes my hair while her tears wet my cheeks. It’s not that bad, Mom, it’s okay. She doesn’t know how to make the fruit sweet for me. I don’t know either. She gives me bites of her own fruit every time she can. She cuts off the skin and makes it bite sized so the little pieces are easy, nothing but tender flesh. I love the sweetness that comes off of her fingers.
But my fruit is still sour.
Eventually I just stop telling her so she can stop worrying so much.
I visit my mother much later. My feet touch the floor now. The same bowl is on the counter, but I don’t see the sunny fruit that has now become my favorite. Everything in the bowl is waxy red now. She still offers it towards me even though I can reach it, and then takes her own piece. I take a piece of fruit from my bag since it isn’t in this bowl at the home that used to be mine.
We do what we often do these days and ponder our fruit in silence before taking a bite. It’s the first time I’m realizing that our pieces of fruit might be different, even though I have her hair and nose and blood. This time because I am thirty-five years old and wise and know maybe Mom is a person besides just Mom, I ask her:
What does your fruit taste like, Mom?
She looks confused - you must know what fruit tastes like my grown daughter, but she acquiesces as always,
She tells me about her sweet fruit and I nod.
Mom, my fruit is different than yours. Isn’t that interesting?
Oh no! Do you want mine? Is yours okay?
No, it’s okay, just different. It’s kind of tough, but I’m tougher. I learned tough from you and from the fruit. I’m learning to love it. I know how to make it as sweet as yours. Can I show you?
Of course
I hold my little fruit with its lumps are pores up over the bowl. She nods and pats my hand, but her eyes are closed, a single tear falling down her cheek, juice from her apple shiny on her lips.
Years later again, Mom and I are at the same table. Mom grabs her favorite red apple. She has extras in the bowl, but she’ll probably make a pie out of the rest of of them. I love apple pie, but red apples just aren’t my thing. They’re yucky.
There’s a couple of lemons in her fruit bowl. Even though I don’t live at home anymore, she always keeps a few in there for when I visit.
She sits across from me at the table, placing two glasses of water between us. She takes an apple out of the bowl and takes a bite while she watches me, always entranced by this person she’s not always quite sure she made. She doesn’t push the bowl towards me; she knows I can reach it.
I squeeze the lemons into the glasses and spoon some sugar in each. I lick the sour off of my fingers, no cuts feel the sting. I swirl the sugar and lemon with a spoon and we both watch me make magic. I can feel Mom admire me and what I’ve made out of my lemon. Almost as much as I’ve always admired her.
I slide a glass of lemonade towards her and then take a sip of my own.
What does your fruit taste like, Steph?
Sunshine, Mom.
Mine too.
Thank you to Jedidiah Jenkins and
for the prompt that led to the initial draft of this piece in October: Think of a family member or friend who sees the world from a different vantage point/touches a different place on the elephant.
So lovely.
Beautiful