The Melon

Dusk on a late August evening. I amble down the hill toward home, sated by cheese tortellini and lemon pie. Off to the right, I see him walking down the steep driveway below the residents' gardens. Our paths will soon intersect.

Tall, slim, ruddy complexion, wisps of grey flying in the breeze. Shoulders slightly rounded as long tanned arms cradle some precious cargo close to his chest. Approaching, I strain to see the cherished object.

We meet. Recognition. A wide smile. Sparkling eyes, sky-color.

"What have you there?" A bit disbelieving since it appears to be only a melon.

The story unfolds. Months earlier, carefully planting seeds. Weeks of watching healthy vines develop. More weeks, then seeing the much anticipated melons form, grow, mature, change color in the sun's warmth. Now, days of discovering one melon after another, not yet quite ripe enough to pick, gashed and broken by teeth not human. Ruined carcasses of fruit left behind, fit only for the garbage dump.

"This is the only one I saved." Still smiling. Arms encircling, hands caressing. Soon continuing on to his cottage, his wife.

Visions of him presenting her with his oval offering. Stainless steel slicing through tender fruit. Sitting together at a maple dining table. Giving thanks for this melon.

And once more I learn a lesson about life.

It's a matter of focus... a choice.

To pine for all the lost melons and to curse the possums, while throwing spoiled fruit and discarded rinds over the hill at the scurrying varmits...

Or, like him, to chew slowly, allowing the tender morsels to slide down his tongue, savoring the luscious sweet taste. Eyes smiling. Heart thankful. While juices dribble down his chin.