Grapefruit

I have this grapefruit spoon I got from my mother. It means a great deal to me. It has a lovely shape with a simple decorative ribbon etched into its handle . It catches the light in a dazzling way, tricking the eyes into believing they've caught sight of something irreplaceable. I don't use it to sever fruit from its rind. No, it sits in a bowl of ash and tar. On days when I can't write I use it to scrape the start, over and over. Digging out my ideas from the dark, dead space that often inhabits me. It sits there in a ceramic bowl, a tool of everyday life. Toted around the house, always in reach.

It is neither very old, nor very rare. But, it has a curious weight to it. It is perfectly balanced, like a fine weapon. If I were a child I would have armed my Barbies with this throwing spear. Here in my hand now I can feel the presence of my mother. In the morning light I see her digging the sharp end into the pink flesh of a grapefruit. It shines vigorously in my mother's hands, pale and sore from years of giving. They looked cold, in need of warmth. In need of a touch of love and care given freely.

She eats one piece at a time, carefully turning the giving half on its little saucer. Good for your heart. My mother, bravely fighting off the inevitable, digging, scraping, segregating a little more time here, a little more influence. We just need a little more time, a little more to create, a little more to receive. Give me a little more and I promise to produce something of consequence, I promise to value my time if only I had a little more.