i. I was too young to care about messy trails of pink juice sticking to my face when Grandpa and I ate watermelon together. At age ten, you don’t feel the scorching sun, the cool breeze, and the escapee juice flowing down the crooked, wooden table spilling onto your lap; nor are you aware of what you feel. There is just the moment and the hidden symbolism of watermelons.

ii. I remember, very distinctly, embracing my grandfather’s big body as he rocked me to sleep: he hymned a traditional, religious lullaby descending from his father’s mother, down to him, then into my delightfully ignorant ears. It fed my brain with seemingly simple psychedelic wonders.

iii. There was a moment before I’d fall into a slumber that a concluding glance saw a glimpse of Grandpa’s neck. I never noticed how the flesh dropped under his chin, nor how his arms gave up holding me after being presumed asleep; I didn’t know he was growing old and weary with every nap I took.

iv. The ghost of a wrinkled face haunts me every time I look at him. The frustration of his rising voice when Father ignored his wise advice was always hidden in the stories and classic grandfather jokes and teasing. His words never sent out waves of wisdom, but only tenderness. I never asked what is politics? and he never replied manipulation. Inquiries about what is life were never asked, for summer life was nothing anything more than asking for the heart of the watermelon.

v. My heart ached when I saw how skinny his face was, but it was mended by his youthful eagerness to hug me. Hold me like you did before, for I am weary. But once again, my heart is stabbed and mutilated by the fact that we are the same height. The faint memories I have are all I ever will have, for I can no longer shield myself from the dark by cuddling in his arms. I never thought I’d miss the unintended underarm wetness; now I know it smells of man.

vi. I held his hand when we stood adjacent to each other-- though conscious of our awkward heights. I felt the fragile skin of his hand hold mine as if I was a child. His hand was that of a battered warrior: a man. I admire Grandfather’s knowledge, cowardice and bravery.

vii. Don’t get me wrong, the pink-red fruit hidden in a thick layer of green colors sill tastes blissfully sweet! The salmon-tinted juice that snakes down my mouth still drips after every munch. But I use a napkin, now, and not my shirt. I do not need assistance to slice open the ovary; I am revealing my own colors, my taste, my smell—my soul.

viii. There is a hypocrisy, or maybe just an irony, that has become of my relationship with Grandfather. My mind is not that of a child anymore, for I bear scars, but he does not know this! He is unaware of a broken heart and my passion for words; he does not know me, yet he loves me. (My philosophies are imprisoned in journals.) Perhaps, this is simply evidence of a new branch of love: ignorant love, innocent love, family love?

ix. Am I no longer a child, Grandpa? I wish I could ask, but I know the answer. It is melancholic. The realization that Grandfather has always been old and goofy (whether I was ten or sixteen) and that he was not the one going through a metamorphosis, but only I. I was the one who evolved from a caterpillar into a cocoon.

x. I was being enlightened by unorthodox life with every bite taken from every watermelon heart. My purity was being ripped away with every responsible choice to grab a napkin. Where has my life gone? I look forward to every summer breeze and every watermelons’ seeds, for they are the only source of innocence I have left, yet, sadly, it is impossible to plant a beginning and start again. And this truth, oh heartbreaking truth, makes me wonder! Am I a woman, Grandpa?