the way i remember summer
today is national watermelon day.
i want watermelon. lots of it. i want a big huge one picked from a field, still warm. i'm one of those freaks that doesn't like her watermelon ice-cold.
i want to plunge the biggest knife we have through the tough point where the melon used to connect with the vine. i want to pull it across untill the pressure causes the whole thing to split with a wet meaty CRACK.
i want to cut wedges as long as my forearm, as wide as my hand, and bite into them with my whole face, my mouth buried past the corners in the grainy sweetness, slurping juice, presing the flesh against the roof of my mouth with moy tongue and feeling it compress, crush against my teeth. i want to take bites almost too big, and feel them fill my mouth.
the watermelon always looks frosted, and biting it brings a crunch almost akin to biting crystallized fruit at first, but it goes so quick. sandy, almost, but not gritty. beads of juice and thin strings and the white seeds that squish between teeth. the black seeds are harder, and crunch if you bite them. i don't like that crunch, so i tuck the seeds into the hollow of my cheek, holding them there until i lift my wet juice covered face to take a breath, and turn, spitting wads of shiny black seeds into the grass as the sticky sugar-sweet water runs down my arms and chin. some seeds are in the way, i will swallow them easily and carelessly, despite horror stories of watermelons growing in the bellies of the children who ate the seeds.
and when the red is all gone, i'll bite into the almost white part, tasting the smoother texture and tart flavor of the near rind, my face wet from nose to chin, my neck covered witha pink-tinged sheen, the top of my shirt soaked, my hands holding tight, fighting to keep hold of the slick green skin as they wrinkle from being saturated with watermelon juice. my arms will be drenched to the elbows, the same pinkish tinge runing, leaving tracks in the fine hair on my arms, and dripping from the points of my elbows onto the grass beneath.
i will drag my hand and arm across my mouth, juice sliding on juice, scraping it away with the pressure of my arm, and finally give up to lift the bottom edge of my shirt and wipe my face. maybe i will go to the waterhose, and lift it for a drink, tasting the strange and familiarplasticky flavor of the hose, the gently force of the water against my lips and face, and wash the sticky from me that way, taking care to bathe my feet, and rinse of the juice, seeds and grass stuck there.
and i will go back, and raise my hands for another slice.
happy watermelon day.
i want watermelon. lots of it. i want a big huge one picked from a field, still warm. i'm one of those freaks that doesn't like her watermelon ice-cold.
i want to plunge the biggest knife we have through the tough point where the melon used to connect with the vine. i want to pull it across untill the pressure causes the whole thing to split with a wet meaty CRACK.
i want to cut wedges as long as my forearm, as wide as my hand, and bite into them with my whole face, my mouth buried past the corners in the grainy sweetness, slurping juice, presing the flesh against the roof of my mouth with moy tongue and feeling it compress, crush against my teeth. i want to take bites almost too big, and feel them fill my mouth.
the watermelon always looks frosted, and biting it brings a crunch almost akin to biting crystallized fruit at first, but it goes so quick. sandy, almost, but not gritty. beads of juice and thin strings and the white seeds that squish between teeth. the black seeds are harder, and crunch if you bite them. i don't like that crunch, so i tuck the seeds into the hollow of my cheek, holding them there until i lift my wet juice covered face to take a breath, and turn, spitting wads of shiny black seeds into the grass as the sticky sugar-sweet water runs down my arms and chin. some seeds are in the way, i will swallow them easily and carelessly, despite horror stories of watermelons growing in the bellies of the children who ate the seeds.
and when the red is all gone, i'll bite into the almost white part, tasting the smoother texture and tart flavor of the near rind, my face wet from nose to chin, my neck covered witha pink-tinged sheen, the top of my shirt soaked, my hands holding tight, fighting to keep hold of the slick green skin as they wrinkle from being saturated with watermelon juice. my arms will be drenched to the elbows, the same pinkish tinge runing, leaving tracks in the fine hair on my arms, and dripping from the points of my elbows onto the grass beneath.
i will drag my hand and arm across my mouth, juice sliding on juice, scraping it away with the pressure of my arm, and finally give up to lift the bottom edge of my shirt and wipe my face. maybe i will go to the waterhose, and lift it for a drink, tasting the strange and familiarplasticky flavor of the hose, the gently force of the water against my lips and face, and wash the sticky from me that way, taking care to bathe my feet, and rinse of the juice, seeds and grass stuck there.
and i will go back, and raise my hands for another slice.
happy watermelon day.