Watermelon

I had to take giant's steps
to keep up with him
but he always waited
even when it meant
matching me stride for stride.

Walking a row of melon vines
tangled in the sun;
he stoops low to the
dry ground and lifts
in one open hand
a fine melon.

His thumb and forefinger
make a circle
which snaps against the hide
of the watermelon.
Thump, thump.
"Try it", he says.

My miniature fingers mimic:
the melon sounds low,
"It's ready", I declare
and I think I can
already taste
the sweet, sticky juices
as the run down my chin.

I remember the taste of watermelon,
large ragged chunks,
ripped by my father's hands
and salted
by the tiny Morton salt shaker
carried in his pocket
for just these occasions