A golden teardrop in the making. The skin stretched pale and translucent, leaving the flesh to its own devices in an increasingly dangerous season. The fruit will not travel far.
The green fruit would collect on the ground before we threw them to be devoured with the fervor we reserved for galas and granny smiths.
To fix myself, it seems, is to become a ghost of myself.
The first time I had a mangosteen, at a night market in Shanghai, my aunt taught me to open it by pressing my thumbs in and pulling it apart. It was absolutely eerie–it split down the middle and opened like an eye.
Fearing the fruit cutting expectations of Korean mother-in-laws
What a royal feeling to look into that bag and imagine something new on my tongue on a day like that.
I wondered how many cherries babies could eat, and what they might think of the taste, or if they just know that the sugar tasted good.
Who would keep the tree living, years after my grandparents have passed?