the humble watermelon

red and juicy in its plumpness

bought in abundance by my father

 

because I was fond of it

brings alive his love and warmth,

recites my parents’ endearing touch

and their wishes of seeing me flourish

 

nurturing and nourishing

extravagance and luxury

 

we will cut it into slices early

Sunday morning looking at each other

smiling and laughing

with newspapers spread on the table

to catch the sweet red drops if they may fall

to not ruin the sofa

to not invite an army of ants

 

a tender moment

separate from the rush

of never ceasing, pausing, ebbing flow of life