Papaya Season

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled with yellow like a bruise that wouldn't heal. David had bought it yesterday, during one of those brief stretches between chemo sessions when he felt strong enough to venture to the market. 'For when I'm better,' he'd said, as if fruit could somehow reverse the cellular betrayal eating him alive from the inside.

Now the apartment felt too quiet, the way spaces do after someone dies and hasn't yet moved out completely. I found myself standing before the fish tank at 3 AM, watching the single goldfish David had named Lazarus circle in its endless loop. It had survived three house moves, a cat, and David's diagnosis—more resilience than any of us could claim.

'Lazarus,' I whispered, and the fish pressed its nose against the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent objection to being disturbed.

I turned on the faucet, letting water run over my hands, needing to feel something besides the numbness that had settled in my chest like silt. The plumber had come yesterday to fix the slow drain, but his solution had been temporary—a patch on a pipe that was rusting through, much like everything else in this building, much like David's body, much like our marriage.

We'd stopped trying somewhere around year seven, when the papaya orchard he'd planted in our backyard died from root rot. He'd poured everything into those trees, pruning and fertilizing, refusing to accept that some things just don't take, no matter how badly you want them to grow.

I cut the papaya now, its flesh revealing itself in sunset colors, smelling faintly of decay and sweetness together. The seeds were black and slippery, little secrets that needed to be scooped away before you could get to anything worth eating. I thought about the letter I'd found in his jacket pocket—not a confession, but a list. Things he'd meant to finish, apologies he'd owed but never delivered.

'Lazarus wants breakfast,' I said aloud to the empty kitchen, and the goldfish darted to the surface, waiting.

I sprinkled flakes that floated on the water's surface like abandoned dreams, then turned back to the papaya. I ate it standing up, leaning against the counter where he'd stood yesterday, letting the juice run down my chin. It was overripe, fermenting slightly on the edge, sweet with that particular ache of things that have gone too long.

Outside, dawn was breaking, water from the morning dew slicking the windows. Tomorrow I would call the plumber about the pipe that still hummed in the walls. Tomorrow I would decide what to do with the orchard space where nothing would grow. Tomorrow I would figure out what happens after.

But tonight, the goldfish swam in its endless circles, and I finished the papaya, seed by seed.