The Papaya Summer of '67

Arthur sat on his back porch, the morning sun warming his arthritic hands as he watched young Tommy across the street swing a worn leather **baseball** bat. The boy missed the ball entirely, and Arthur chuckled softly. Some things never changed — the hope, the frustration, the eternal optimism of summer.

His old tabby, Cleopatra — named for her enigmatic gaze that reminded him of the ancient **sphinx** — jumped onto his lap, purring with the rumble of a well-tuned engine. At seventeen, she moved slowly now, her golden eyes clouding with age, much like his own.

"You remember, don't you, old girl?" Arthur scratched behind her ears. "Sixty years come July."

He closed his eyes and could almost taste it: that first **papaya** his mother had brought home from the specialty market on 4th Street. None of the neighbors had seen such a thing — a strange, pear-shaped fruit with sunset-colored flesh and peppery seeds. His father had called it 'exotic nonsense' until he tasted it. Then, suddenly, they were having papaya every Sunday morning, eaten with spoonfuls of lime juice and conversation about the old country.

Granddaughter Sophie appeared at the screen door, holding her phone. "Grandpa? Mom says you're telling the papaya story again."

"Some stories bear repeating, lovey."

"She wants to know if you'll come to dinner. Tommy's hitting his first home run today, apparently."

Arthur smiled. In his mind's eye, he saw his own father standing in this same yard, teaching him to swing. The game continued — different players, same diamond. He carefully lifted Cleopatra from his lap and stood, his joints protesting but his heart light.

"Tell your mother I'll be there," he said. "And Sophie? Bring some papaya. I think it's time your cousins learned about exotic nonsense."