Cantaloupes and Bananas
by Heather Terry
How long has it been, I wonder, since we’ve shared a cantaloupe?
Since I’ve stayed over night and gotten up early to sit with you?
You always rose at five in the morning, and I joined you at seven.
You called me papuga. It means parrot, you said. I called you papuga, too.
We used to sit on the kitchen step and you’d carve the fruit up for us.
You always used the same knife, black handle, flexible, serrated.
As I grew older, I was always surprised you fed the cantaloupe to me
from the tip of the knife. You never cut me. Not once.
When Nana woke up, you’d whisper “Nana Banana” and I’d giggle.
I’d run to her and give her a good morning hug.
Now I give her hugs for comfort, and I find I can’t remember
the last time I had a cantaloupe.
I am an English teacher, writer, photographer, gardener and devoted dog owner! I also enjoy sewing, archery and kayaking. It is my goal to build a writing career while continuing my work as an educator. I am also pursuing my Master of Arts in English at Kent State University and will graduate December 2015.