Melon Heads

Mama used to keep her watermelon on the floor in the kitchen, just beneath the air conditioner vent, which was peculiarly low to the ground. This system guaranteed that the watermelon would stay very cool and free up space in her refrigerator, a space that always housed a wide supply of leftovers that could be heated up in a matter of minutes for a hearty homecooked meal. Mama loves watermelon in the summer, and when summertime rolls around, I can't help but recall all those hot afternoons taking a break at Mama's kitchen table (the one that had a white top with golden specks) and enjoying a huge slice alongside her. She had an old black metal fan blowing to cool off the room and the light from the window highlighted an open page in her copy of "The Upper Room". Sometimes Mama would sprinkle salt on her slice, and often I would follow suit. She was much better at spitting out the seeds than I was, my method employed more of a pick and flick style with the fork. Whenever I declared I was finished, Mama nonchalantly picked up my rind and gnawed the last remaining bit of fruit away. She never wastes anything. Every now and then Papa would breeze by with his daily crossword in tow. He keeps them on a clipboard, has for years. He needs me to help him with one word. It's an easy one he's left knowing that I will be able to come up with the answer. He claps and laughs heartily when I get it and pats me on the shoulder and kisses my forehead. He calls me "Lauren Pooh." Sometimes Mama and I would have Canteloupe. I wasn't allowed to have it at home, my mother hated everything about the orange-meated melon. She hated mostly the way it smelled, and for that reason, I had to enjoy the fruit elsewhere. I liked that though. Because it was something that Mama and I shared alone, like we were exiled into our own little world, just me and her, slurping on our favorite summer fruit, smiling at our secret delight, and spitting out seeds.