To the True Victim of Forbidden Fruit

January 6, 2014

Dear Grocery Store Ruby Red Grapefruit (from Texas):

You know, you’re actually pink. Like what Barbie might eat if she were inclined to eat grapefruit, which she isn’t, but if she were, you would be the perfect accessory to her pink kitchen, and her pink grapefruit bowl, and her pink serrated grapefruit spoon because god knows that Barbie would not peel you. Barbie would slice you in half and scoop out each half segment and worry over the seeds but eat you anyway because she once heard that you used more calories eating a grapefruit than you took in, which is totally something she would think about, were she inclined to think.

I actually prefer white grapefruit.

But that’s not your fault.

Just like it’s not your fault that some four years ago in January I sat on the deck of a schooner in the Caribbean peeling white grapefruit from Grenada and eating the sharp, juicy pulp by whole handfuls as though I were dying and only this One Thing would save me, only this One Thing as we sliced through waves and salt air and my hair whipped my eyes and I hunkered in the shade cast by our mainsail and stripped away pith and skin. We didn’t know—how could we?—that in that moment my whole understanding of you would change and that I would know you for the first time as Imposter. Doppleganger. Homonym.

How bittersweet for you, then, must my longing be, my desire to return not to that moment, rather, to the moment just before. To the time when a grapefruit was simply a grapefruit. When I thought—no, when I knew—that what I was getting then would be no different to what I’d had before or what I will, forever, have again.

To the time before Knowing.

Regretfully, Robin

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