Pomegranate . She turned one of her perfect cartwheels and stood before me in the sunlight, laughing as blood ran from the corners of her mouth and she spit her tiny baby teeth at my feet. . I was shocked. I was disturbed. I was infected by her laughter, and began to giggle. . "Want some?" What did she expect me to say? That I'd love to ingest whatever it was that was causing her teeth to fall like rain? That I'd love to chew glass with her... if it would make me as happy as she obviously was? Of course I did. I adored her. . When she brought it out I was amazed by the tensile strength of its skin. She pulled off a piece, and it was flesh being torn from a carcass...the red rivulets stigmatizing her palms only fed my imagination. She handed me the piece and I held the ruby honeycomb at eye level so I could see the light shining through. . I had picked at enough scabs to recognize the color of the very freshest blood...before the oxidization really kicks in... before the clotting and coagulation. I hadn't tasted wine yet but I imagined it must be as good as this, so sweet and still tart enough to make you wince in pain. . Why else would her parents drink so much of the red? . I was convinced I had never seen, or tasted, anything more beautiful. Then I looked up and saw the wind create a halo of her white-blonde hair, and I saw her slowly part her lips and lick the last of the juice away. And I remembered I had. . Five years later, I saw her again. Our mothers were going to the same ashram and arranged for us to hang out. . (Don't think for one moment that I am unaware of just how "Californian" that last sentence is...) . I was excited...it turned out she was anxious. She was afraid of me. She was afraid that our friendship had been "unhealthy". She asked me, all the while staring at some fascinating spot on the table, if I remembered the "things" we used to do. . Now all I can remember is the taste of that first pomegranate. .

SMQ1996