I have a terrible weakness for cherries. A bowl of plump, red cherries is my Achilles’ heel. I have rhapsodied about them before.
I came back, and poor intern though I was, I bought and consumed a pack of cherries everyday. It had to end when I went back to Atlanta, where there were no cherries. I remembered and dreamed of cherries though. I returned here, many months later, and yearned for the summer and the cherries from the North West.
I could have put that daily summer cherry fund to better uses, I am sure. Yet, I have decided to not think about all of that, and to eat my cherries guilt-free.
Today, I received a text from my dear, long-suffering shop-assistant at a local grocery. Cherries are in season, she said. I drove there after a recital, and she greeted my beaming, expectant face with a pack of cherries.
“Save one every evening, please,” I asked her. She rolled her eyes and said she will see about that. Yet, this is not the first summer where she has undertaken that onerous favor for me. So I am assured of my season’s cherry supply.
When I was a child, my grandmother used to tell me that eating an apple makes you look like an apple, which is a cherished ideal for women in that society. A plum makes you good-natured. Cherries were for making your lips kissable. I loved most fruits except bananas and mangoes. So I was happy to nod fervently and eat whatever she put before me.
Now I am sitting on my comfy bean bag with a bowl of cherries, and munching away, and writing again, and thanking whatever has held me strong through these years of uncertainty and a stifled pen. I wish I had the strength to see past all of this, to a future where I can write and publish, but that will require me to relocate to another land where immigrants are treated kinder, or perhaps returning to the land I came from even if I have little left there. These are cares for today, and for tomorrow too, and I suppose a respite for today is not too greedy. I am off to music and company. Goodnight.