I cut the pieces carefully, and as I peel the skin of the mango back and dig the fruit out with my fingertips, I imagine a tuft of hair and ten small fingers over the counter. For a minute, I imagine I’m peeling the pieces for him. I cut the pieces smaller than I need to so they’re easier for him to swallow. For a minute, I let myself imagine I’m peeling fruit for a bigger reason than my own hunger.
I look back at the hands on the counter and the head at my hip and foolishly for a second I cry for something I’ve never lost. And I convince myself for a minute that the hospital bed and the needles and the pain, the pain, the pain would all be worth it if I could just create something good. That none of that would matter if a part of me could be here and be proof that I am good.
I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve. It shifts and pinches and it gets caught on the door. But now my heart would be running around in ripped sneakers and a baseball cap and climbing trees and chasing butterflies. My heart would get to see the world from outside while I watch it, having forgotten what grass feels like the first time you touch it. I’d teach him about puddles and sidewalk chalk and ways to heal a bruise. I’d know love exists because he would. And the ink stains on my callused hands wouldn’t just spell out fantasies, they’d be real. I’d teach him how to stain his own fingers until both our hands were blue and our hearts were on the paper.
Then I wake up and I’m crying and my heart is beating hard against my chest. The kitchen is still and I am alone and the grass has been dead for a month. So I eat the fruit slowly, all cut up, imagining a life that isn’t mine in a world better than this with ten small fingers and a tuft of hair at my hip.
artwork on cover is by artist Pan Xi.
Ouch