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Ripe

  I remember the first taste of grapefruit. Uncle had bought me the ripest one.

 Once Cut in half and split open by the knife, it peelt, sounding like flesh breaking free. A refrehing spill of newlyhood raced down the butcherman's hand. He then brought it up and pulled it apart, seperating the seed pod into two. Performing this love so publically. She was ripe, giving whatever sweet she had. When I bit into her-I tasted her sour divine love onto my swollen tongue. After tasting and taking every sweet from it, I spit the rawness into the trash can.

 "I don't like grapefruit, Uncle Jerone".

We walked from the market to home. On the entire way there, I tasted her all honesty. Against the walls of my cheeks, the very roof of my mouth, my tongue swollen and tense. All the good that fruit had to offer, I could not stand any glimpse of it. I felt paralyzed, my mouth dry of grapefruit sourness. I repeatedly spit into the dirt, the side walk, the grass, the patio. Wherever I went. Wherever it went but forcefully regained its taste with each thrust of spit I gathered from my throat.

"Uncle Jerone".

"What, boy?"

"I need some water."

"Yolanda, fix ma nephew here some water".

Aunt Yolanda pours the water slowly into the shots glass. She is careful not to spill any over the counter, and she is careful when she walks, and hands me the glass. 

I drink the water.

 I don't say thank you. She was so nice. I knew she wouldn't mind.

It's said to be that a man who crys is not a man. 

"If you do, you weak." Uncle spit out the shells of the sunflower seeds and scraped his shoe off the porch. 

"These boys that cry is some bitch niggas".

Curiosity had hit me at the time. 

"Why though uncle?" 

"Why? I just told you why boy, don't you listen? Here let me tell you. It-uhh It-It's a tragedy you know- when you find a woman you love but she turn her back on you. Now, it's eeen more a tragedy if you cry over her. Now you crying for a bitch-so youse a bitch nigga. Ahahaaa!" Uncle bust into laughs and took another sip of the orange colored glass he always carried with him.  It made him act a fool sometimes.

"What is that uncle?"

"Talking bout this?"

He held up the bottle and smiled, his gold grill shining under the porch light. 

"Issa grown man's true love boy. Now this! I cry over.. this who I love!"

He cuddled the glass bottle up by his chest then auntie came and slapped the back of his head. 

"Don't you tell him that, Jerone. "

"Dam woman now she jealous ahaa! See boy how she hit me? She better watch out fore she get something back, huh?"

"Go to bed." Aunt Yolanda helped Uncle up off the porch.

"Come here, boy." Auntie rubbed my shoulder.

"Did you do your homework?"

Aunt Yolanda's big, deep brown eyes sunk through me. I knew she'd know I was lying if I said yes.

"No ma'am I did not."

She shook her head in disappointment. 

"Go do that then I want you to get ready for bed you hear me?"

"Yes ma'am."

"And dinner on the table, too." 

No matter how many times I tried, I couldn't understand what Uncle meant about women. Aunt Yolanda was beautiful and nice. She loved him so much and she had always cared for me.

But it didn't take so long to realize the issue. The start of a "new man" was now beginning.