Seasons of Sweetness

Margaret stood on her porch, watching her old dog Buster nose through the autumn leaves. At seventy-eight, she reflected how some things ripen with time, while others simply fade. Her white hair caught the morning light as she remembered Eleanor — her friend of sixty-three years, gone now three years this past November.

The papaya sitting on her kitchen counter seemed impossibly out of place in rural Wisconsin. But Eleanor had always been the adventurous one, the one who dragged Margaret to Havana in 1963, where they'd first tasted the exotic fruit. They'd sat on a seawall, waves lapping at their feet, water spraying their bare legs, sharing a single papaya with spoons purloined from a tourist café. 'Life is bitter enough,' Eleanor had said, juice dripping down her chin. 'We must find our own sweetness.'

That trip had been their rebellion against settling down, against the marriages their mothers arranged, against the quiet desperation of their small town. Eleanor never married. Margaret did, but she kept Eleanor's letters tucked in her jewelry box, written on scented paper perfumed with adventures.

Now Margaret sliced the papaya, its orange flesh bright against the dull morning. She remembered how Eleanor had made her laugh during her darkest times — when her son left for Vietnam, when her husband's cancer returned, when grandchildren grew too busy for visits. Eleanor would appear on her doorstep with some strange fruit or improbable story, her smile as warm as summer sunshine.

'Memories are like water,' Eleanor once said, lying in her hospital bed, too thin but still fierce. 'They flow around what matters and wash away the rest.' She'd squeezed Margaret's hand, her grip surprisingly strong. 'Remember the sweetness, Maggie. That's what stays.'

Margaret carried the papaya outside to Buster, who lifted his head expectantly. 'For old times,' she whispered, placing a slice on his plate. As he lapped it up with surprising enthusiasm, she realized something Eleanor would have appreciated: even old dogs find new sweetness, if offered the chance.

The morning sun warmed Margaret's face. Somewhere, she imagined Eleanor was laughing, probably with some exotic fruit in hand, still finding sweetness in unexpected places. Margaret took a slice of papaya for herself, closed her eyes, and let the taste carry her back to Havana, 1963, when two young women sat by the water, discovering that friendship itself was the sweetest fruit of all.