dreams: March 1, 1999
eating a persimmon
I'm in a kitchen. Mom is cutting up a persimmon. She pulled it out of
the silverware drawer. It is small and dark red. She is slicing it with
a knife. I'm reading from Li-Young Lee's poem,
"Persimmons,"
following the
guidance of how to eat the fruit. I tell Mom that it must be ripe -- ripe
to the point of soft mushiness when you squeeze it. The skin must be dark.
"You cut it with your knife," I say. I try a piece. It tastes very good.
I'm not sure if it's ripe enough though. Are we doing it the wrong way,
like Americans? I feel a bond with Mom. I see that she has put long overripe
strips of the fruit back in the silverware drawer; it looks like mango, orange
and soft. I laugh that she put it in the drawer. I take a sip from a cup
of milk on the counter. It has lots of cinnamon in it. Very yummy.
- FIN -