Watermelon Wishes

When the blade of the knife hit the cutting board, releasing a mist of intoxicating watermelon fragrance, I was no longer a mom in Mumbai chopping up fruit with the maid. I was a skinny thirteen year old. I was home on Cape Cod. I was sitting on the sidewalk outside my house, knobby knees pressing into hot tarmac, with a red and juicy half-moon clamped between my fingers. I was sinking my crooked teeth into the fruit, catching slippery seeds with my tongue, letting the July sun dry the pink, sticky droplets to my chin.

It only lasted a second, but the pleasantness of my memory enhanced the joy of watching Isabel experience her own watermelon wedge this afternoon. Even though she was a mess from ears to toes, even though she rubbed the watermelon rinds into the just-cleaned kitchen floor, and even though I had to give her a third bath, seeing her enjoy that summer fruit with so much bliss was magical. Maybe one day, I thought, she too will sit on a Cape Cod sidewalk, in the buzzing heat of summer, watermelon juice running down her chin, with her mind as clear and blue as the July sky above...