The Papaya Summer of '57

Martha sat on her porch swing, watching the papaya tree sway in the afternoon breeze. At eighty-two, she still remembered the summer her father planted that stubborn sapling, right after her mother passed. 'Life goes on, Martha girl,' he'd said, his hands trembling as he patted the soil around the base.

The papayas were just beginning to ripen, their yellow skins blushing like old memories. She thought of Tommy—her Tommy—who'd been running alongside her through these same fields sixty years ago. They'd been swimming in Miller's Pond that afternoon when the old farmer's bull escaped.

'Martha, run!' Tommy had shouted, grabbing her hand as they tore through the meadow, the great black beast snorting behind them. They'd scrambled up an oak tree, perched on branches like two frightened birds, laughing until their sides ached even as the bull circled below.

That was the summer everything changed. They'd kissed for the first time in that tree, while the bull eventually lost interest and ambled away. Two weeks later, Tommy left for college, and Martha stayed behind to help her father with the papaya sapling.

They'd written letters for years. Tommy became a teacher, Martha married the pharmacist and raised three children right here in this house. They'd stayed friends—good friends—meeting for coffee once a month, celebrating each other's milestones, holding hands at each other's spouse's funerals.

Now, alone in the house her children kept begging her to sell, Martha harvested a papaya. She sliced it open, the sweet fragrance filling her kitchen. She took a bite, closing her eyes. It tasted like swimming holes and summer sunsets, like the courage of youth and the comfort of old age.

'Tommy would have loved this,' she whispered, though her friend had passed two winters ago. Some friendships, she realized, never really end. They just ripen, like fruit on a tree, becoming sweeter with time.

She wiped her chin and reached for her phone. It was time to call her granddaughter, tell her the story about the bull and the papaya tree. Some legacies, after all, are meant to be shared.