Plum Dandy

I remember the first time I tried a plum. The outside was deep purple–but the blue kind, the bruise kind–made all the better by the gorgeous white powder finish, like this creation had makeup to set, so no beauty would fall out of place. I wrapped my teeth around and it burst, yellow and soft and almost grainy. It tasted warm. I stood in my parents’ bedroom in front of the big rolling mirrors, myself reflected back at me, flavor bursting into my mouth.

In recent years, I’ve grown scared of plums because my father likes his fruit cold. I am the oldest girl, so I make things easy for everyone. Baba likes fruit cold, so we keep fruit in the fridge. That means, I have to take a knife and slice the plums, which are red purple like the color of my lotion and the berry lipstick I used to try so hard to pull off. I work the fruit pieces around my molars because it triggers less sensitivity. The skin is so sour. When your teeth hurt too bad, you start accidentally saying things you mean, like the plums are awful this season and you hate cold fruit, which triggers Mama and Baba to leave half the fruit out on the table for you in the big wooden bowl.

I gave up on plums, but Mama got worried about fruit going bad, so to make up for telling the truth, I decided I’d eat whatever was left out on the table in the wooden bowl, no matter how soft they had gotten. I touched down to bruise soft, bruise purple. Pierced through the sour sour skin into golden rays and the memory of gold trim on a big rolling mirror with myself in it.

I have been trying to be brave by rewatching my old ramblings, where I thought maybe I was funnier and was most definitely more beautiful. Then I remembered none of it was true and, no matter how the brain retells it, I was soft-spoken and emotional. The other night, I was overwhelmed because I remembered that and realized I had not gotten worse, not smaller, just different. Same bones, same bruises and golden grain. Rewatched the show I loved and realized its flaws, but still loved it. Cried because good and bad and good and bad and golden juice and sour skin and.

I have a friend who told me he wanted to go to Heaven so bad. He wanted to relive that moment, over and over–he called it indescribable. He once offered to race (who would win?), elevator or stairs, but we both ended up taking the elevator. Talked to an old friend and remembered the time I was told that miracles happen everywhere all the time, yet they are all still true. He told me this was a miracle too. I was never brave, never wise, and most of all, never learned. I get through the days by pretending the vampires in my show compelled me to live life and by that, they mean–I mean–live life and really enjoy it. Really get to the part where you pierce the plum's sour and everything is golden sweet. So I keep biting and biting and biting.