“Watermelon Seed”
Watermelon Seed
“Un enfant,
C’est le dernier poète
D’un monde qui s’entête
A vouloir devenir grand
Et ça demande si les nuages ont des ailes
Et ça s’inquiète d’une neige tombée
Et ça s’endort, de l’or sous les paupières
Et ça se doute qu’il n’y a plus de fées”
Three stones were dropped in the creek
where the dragonflies kept them company,
the prehistoric nymphs feeding on their umbilicals.
We had trouble finding our way back to that place,
but were rewarded for doing so with watermelon,
which we let drip down our hands and arms
in the intense heat of an Oklahoma summer.
The gemstones were kept fixed in her eyes,
projecting sad and murky images from her heart.
I was too young to feel the distance, but her hands
recoiled when she saw that I had the same stone
skin she’d thrown into that creek so long ago.
The dragonflies still fed nearby, emerged for
their brief adult lives to witness our return.
There is a shed still bursting with private musings
and with his attempts to understand the pain,
of loss and of rejection and of mistakes made.
I’ve grown apart, my hands unable to find hers
and my eyes now filled with gemstones.
Chasms have opened where creeks used to be,
and stones have spilled out in all directions.
Unspoken words and indifference hang low,
clouds that block the sun and offer cooling shade.
When the watermelon has been eaten, you spit
out the seeds, which sometimes grow into new
plants that put on the beautiful refreshing fruit.
Sometimes, those seeds rot and turn to dust.
I am still a child, ignorant and stupid.
I’m standing in the grocery store, broasted chicken
in my hands for my grandma’s dinner, dumbfounded.
She looked past me, the gemstones in her eyes
blinding her from seeing me, even though I could
see the glint of recognition on her face as she silently
passed by. That was the last time I saw her.
Dust.
Written 19 February 2020 in Payne County, Oklahoma.
Brian Fuchs, “Watermelon Seed” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)
It was March 10, 2002 — a Sunday morning. I was at work, shelving a cart in the corner of the store where the history, biography, & social sciences sections were kept. I had paused for a moment to read the inside flap on the book. I had taken entirely too much time looking decided to place it on hold for myself so I could look at it later. I took it to the front and placed it on the employee hold shelf. Bettina announced that I had a phone call. I knew it would be my parents and it irritated me that they could never figure out to not call me before we open.
“Mimi” is my mom’s mom, Bonita Christine “Chris” Tucker. She was the matriarch of our family; the force that connected us all and kept us together. She orchestrated every event that brought us together, reminded us to connect with one another, and nagged us all mercilessly. Mimi was an extremely confident woman who knew who she was. She was totally devoted to her husband, her God, & the other members of her church. She was generous with her money and her time, but was never afraid to tell you her opinion on what you were doing. Evidently, there wasn’t enough money to be made as a writer to justify her supporting it. I cherished talking to her. I would sit with her and talk about people for hours… she knew absolutely everything going on in Stillwater. But it never seemed like gossip. Mimi was a very good-hearted person.
That week was surreal. I still don’t remember much of it. Of course, it culminated in a beautiful funeral. I had gone back home to Tulsa to get some clothes and for the funeral I chose the shirt she had just given me for Christmas. The shirt was a gold knit with a collar. I wore khaki pants. I wouldn’t have felt right in dark colors and I really wanted to celebrate life. The funeral was made that much more difficult when I discovered that my cousins’ nanny was sitting with them and I couldn’t sit with my immediate family because of it. Furthermore, I ended up next to my mom’s friend, who had apparently not figured out that I was an adult and kept talking to me as if I were a child.