I’ve always been the kind of woman who retains watermelons. I blame it on my constitution. Melons have spent weeks with me in the summer, traveling from pool to picnic to lake to porch and home again. My children develop attachments and name them. An amicable, albeit odd, friendship forms.
This watermelon is different. When I thump it, I cannot hear its soul. It frightens me.
In early June, I sowed the 12 seeds of my unraveling. Only two seeds sprouted. Only one of those sprouts produced a watermelon.