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Small Hungers
Summer brought fruit. Riper, sweeter. Cheaper than any other season. And Ma bought all she could. Mangoes, rosy and plump. Berries in blue. Kiwis that she held in her hands, spooning the green flesh from its furry skin. Any piece with a thick rind, she showed how to smell at one end, a dab of sweetness there. Like perfume at a pulse.
Summer prices let the money go further and the fruits piled up in bowls throughout the kitchen, their bright colors a welcome sight after the slow spring, all that gray and damp. Their taste? A hint of what lay beyond that flat farm country—beyond the numbness of frost, of white skies and the workday trudging, her heels clicking steady as she cashed meager checks for weathered hands and prayed with them to the god of soft earth, the goddess of thaw. Nights, she cooked what she could, the easy and near things. The five-for-a-dollar things. Starchy browns and beige, the tired green of tinned beans. All the spice and seasoning just specks—tiny and dry.
But then came July.
It brought fruit. And light—so many hours of it—the sun sizzling through the kitchen window as it set. It brought nights when heat and humidity took over the house, making our hungers seem small. On these nights, all the curtains drawn, no lamps on, just a line of sun seeped in, maybe a breeze, and after work, Ma headed straight for her room. She traded her skirt and hose for a pair of cut-off jeans, the denim soft and loose. A token from times-had—way before she had me.
As in Boy, we sure had some times.
She would sway her hips then, as if she heard music—some old R&B—and with a smile, she left it at that. A piece of herself she’d keep. For herself. For those who might’ve known her as something else. Like, something other than Ma’am. Something other than Ma. Like, Boy you’re something else, they might’ve said and they’d shorten her name to Jo. They’d know the perfume dabbed behind her ear and the words to those songs that made her sway.
Maybe she could hear their voices, even now, as she looked in the mirror. As she twisted and turned, taking in her curves, and I watched from the bed, reflected behind her. Another twist—and she smoothed the denim at her hips with tender hands. Another turn—and suddenly she saw me there, as if I’d just arrived. Did you know, she’d say, that the core of a pineapple is called the heart? and sauntering to the kitchen barefoot, she would tie her blouse at her midriff, roll up the sleeves and start. The sugar scent grew with every slice. And soon she had carved up one of each fruit, one at least, spreading the pieces out on paper plates as if they were platters for a party.
The room like dusk, the air heavy.
We leaned against the counter eating a dinner of pineapple and wedges of melon. We perched our hands below our mouths. We let the juice fall. Drops escaped down her wrist, blotting the sleeve of her blouse. Stains like watercolors. She wouldn’t notice. Leaning there, she sighed. Her bare belly showing every breath.
The oven stayed cool and dark. The pots and pans stayed clean, the counters empty, but for a few spots of juice. Pale yellow and orange. A pool of pink. There would be no sweeping and wiping, no sink full of dishwater pruning her hands. She sighed for this rare night, the open hours. Maybe she would go down to the chill of the basement, uncover the old turntable and flop on the couch, playing the albums she could sing to. Maybe she’d take her book down there, the love story she could never finish, her head always too heavy at night—falling asleep in chairs, the book open against her chest. Perhaps tonight she could get to the core of it.
Or maybe, more likely, she would go out to the yard, where the air could move. The evening sun, softer now—surely she would soak it up like a creature free of hibernation. The heat on her legs, she would sprawl on a blanket. Holding one more palmful of mango, waiting for the sky to change and match it.
Summer brought fruit. Riper, sweeter. Cheaper than any other season. And Ma bought all she could. Mangoes, rosy and plump. Berries in blue. Kiwis that she held in her hands, spooning the green flesh from its furry skin. Any piece with a thick rind, she showed how to smell at one end, a dab of sweetness there. Like perfume at a pulse.
Summer prices let the money go further and the fruits piled up in bowls throughout the kitchen, their bright colors a welcome sight after the slow spring, all that gray and damp. Their taste? A hint of what lay beyond that flat farm country—beyond the numbness of frost, of white skies and the workday trudging, her heels clicking steady as she cashed meager checks for weathered hands and prayed with them to the god of soft earth, the goddess of thaw. Nights, she cooked what she could, the easy and near things. The five-for-a-dollar things. Starchy browns and beige, the tired green of tinned beans. All the spice and seasoning just specks—tiny and dry.
But then came July.
It brought fruit. And light—so many hours of it—the sun sizzling through the kitchen window as it set. It brought nights when heat and humidity took over the house, making our hungers seem small. On these nights, all the curtains drawn, no lamps on, just a line of sun seeped in, maybe a breeze, and after work, Ma headed straight for her room. She traded her skirt and hose for a pair of cut-off jeans, the denim soft and loose. A token from times-had—way before she had me.
As in Boy, we sure had some times.
She would sway her hips then, as if she heard music—some old R&B—and with a smile, she left it at that. A piece of herself she’d keep. For herself. For those who might’ve known her as something else. Like, something other than Ma’am. Something other than Ma. Like, Boy you’re something else, they might’ve said and they’d shorten her name to Jo. They’d know the perfume dabbed behind her ear and the words to those songs that made her sway.
Maybe she could hear their voices, even now, as she looked in the mirror. As she twisted and turned, taking in her curves, and I watched from the bed, reflected behind her. Another twist—and she smoothed the denim at her hips with tender hands. Another turn—and suddenly she saw me there, as if I’d just arrived. Did you know, she’d say, that the core of a pineapple is called the heart? and sauntering to the kitchen barefoot, she would tie her blouse at her midriff, roll up the sleeves and start. The sugar scent grew with every slice. And soon she had carved up one of each fruit, one at least, spreading the pieces out on paper plates as if they were platters for a party.
The room like dusk, the air heavy.
We leaned against the counter eating a dinner of pineapple and wedges of melon. We perched our hands below our mouths. We let the juice fall. Drops escaped down her wrist, blotting the sleeve of her blouse. Stains like watercolors. She wouldn’t notice. Leaning there, she sighed. Her bare belly showing every breath.
The oven stayed cool and dark. The pots and pans stayed clean, the counters empty, but for a few spots of juice. Pale yellow and orange. A pool of pink. There would be no sweeping and wiping, no sink full of dishwater pruning her hands. She sighed for this rare night, the open hours. Maybe she would go down to the chill of the basement, uncover the old turntable and flop on the couch, playing the albums she could sing to. Maybe she’d take her book down there, the love story she could never finish, her head always too heavy at night—falling asleep in chairs, the book open against her chest. Perhaps tonight she could get to the core of it.
Or maybe, more likely, she would go out to the yard, where the air could move. The evening sun, softer now—surely she would soak it up like a creature free of hibernation. The heat on her legs, she would sprawl on a blanket. Holding one more palmful of mango, waiting for the sky to change and match it.
originally published in Nelle, Issue 4
photos by Eva Bronzini, Marc Linder, & Any Lane