plums

a memory

The July heat makes me think of the plum tree in my grandfather's backyard.

I would climb it and scratch my knees and elbows on the jagged bark. 

The air was hot and floral, 

and the smell of trumpet flowers stung my nose with their intoxicatingly sweet scent. 

I would grab as many plums as my small child hands could carry–

each one looked more enticing than the last. 

I couldnt choose.

I needed them all to be mine. 

Just holding them in my palms, I knew that they were going to be delicious. 

The texture of their skin was tacky, 

and if you rubbed your thumb against it in just the right way, it would make a delightful squeaking sound. 

But if you rubbed to hard, the skin would break, and peel back in ribbons beneath your finger.

My grandpa would insist on “warshing” them off with the hose, but I couldn't wait that long. 

My teeth would pierce the sticky, purple skin, and the insides would still be warm from the sun. 

The juice would get all over my hands and face, and would stay there all day. 

Like a delicious reminder. 

As I made my descent from the tree, it took all of my focus to not drop a single plum. 

Of course I did, 

and I would watch them fall and splat on the ground, blending in with all the other rotten ones that fell before it.

And when my feet would finally touch the grass below,

I would squish the pulp in between my tiny toes and become aware of the pits inside. 

When it was time to leave my grandpa's house, he would always send me home with a white plastic Safeway bag filled to the brim with those delicious plums. 

and I would eat half the bag on the car ride home. 

Which made my mother upset.

Plums from the store always look so appealing,

and I'll cave and buy one from time to time,

hoping that maybe they will take me back to the hot July afternoons of my youth.

But I'm always disappointed.

Because no plum will ever taste as good as nostalgia feels. 

And now my stomach hurts.