The farmer lady says, "This is a good 'un" We buy it. While I fetch coffee at the main street cafe, Mark halves the melon and scoops out baby-tooth seeds and squirmy innards. When I arrive at the picnic table in the sunshine, the two juicy halves await me. As I tuck in a spoon and sliver out a bulbous morsel, I inhale the musky ripeness. A first bite summons muskmelons of yesteryear. Pungent sweetness slides down my throat. Oh, but could we return to the tastes and sighs of summers past.
But why so melancholy, oh, melon?
This is the day to let juice and memories trickle down my chin.
Praise to the lowly muskmelon--not the cantalope nor the honeydew. You catapult me from present to past and back to present. Slurp.