Back when watermelon used to have seeds before it was bred out of ‘em, my two sisters and I would select the slices with the most ammo, duck and dodge around the gazebo, trying to see who could spit their seed the farthest and with the best aim. Perfection was all in the puff of the cheeks, and my little sister was a machine gun. Don’t think I ever won a round. But afterward, we’d all three girls join with the women under the cupola, cross our legs, tuck fresh slices in white napkins, and slowly sip our lemonades. Sunday bonnets blossoming around our faces. We’d nibble the flushed fruit, and talk about ladylike topics such as, how to pickle rinds or the newest hairdos or how Aunt Ruby was getting on. And the seeds, like our secrets, we spit discreetly into the folds of our napkins.
On the back deck, the leaves cartwheel in the wind. I slice the season’s first seedless melon for my children and think how much fun has been wasted. The bright lipstick pink looks vulgar without the freckles. But mostly, I remember how the fruit used to taste sweeter on account of those kernels of mischief.
No joy. Bombs away!
Ol’ watermelon brigade
is stoneless these days.
© 2022 | K.Hartless
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