The Growing of a Melon

Plans were made to meet at the beach. A short gravel trail led them to an opening at the end of the peninsula. An old dried oak tree, sun baked and withered, was partially dug into the sand. They leaned their bikes and backs against it and began unpacking their bags. Smiles were passed from face to face with the radiant glow of summer sun bouncing off of their teeth in glimmering winks. They were ageless, no signs of life's traumas were displayed upon their faces. The food they unpacked was young and healthy. A container of watermelon slices from a melon with a yellow belly. An assortment of cheeses which, now with the heat blaring down upon them, they were growing concerned for. Bottles of wine, cheap but desirable nonetheless, passed from mouth to mouth. Sweet loving glances, passed from eye to eye from friend to friend as the juices of the fruits dripped down their chins and the seeds stuck in their teeth. The waves in the distance brought in the smell of the sea. A salty humid air, clinging to their skin, wrapping them into their environment as though they were no more than a stone or a shell. And they weren’t.

The luxuries of present life were made evident by their picnic. In previous generations they said, perhaps they would have had to survive on kelp. In response, one of them tasted the still wet, beached kelp and expressed distaste in a sour pucker. Laughs were shared, wine was spilt, celebrations passed at the lives they led. All of their issues, at this point on the beach, whether related to work or family, or a broken car or broken bike or anything else one stresses about, felt as trivial as ever. Nonexistent even. It was all so simple. As simple as the waves that crashed against the beach and turned to warm bubbled foam in which the small crabs bathed. As simple as the sand and all of its grains that seeped between their toes. As simple as the watermelon they tasted on their tongues. As simple as the seeds with which the watermelon grew from. As simple as the present, for that was all there ever was.

As they left the beach with the evening sun turning to a darkened orange deep in the horizon. The world's complexities resurfaced and suddenly it all seemed so different. The waves hid beneath them an entire world far more complicated than the bubbling foam it abandoned at its edge. The grains of sand were as infinite as the stars in the sky which could never be put between one's toes. The watermelon they tasted was gone and being digested by a body they hardly understood. Their own, their friends, it did not matter, for they hardly knew the difference. The seeds were deep in the earth, sprouting only because all of the right things had to occur. The sun must rise, rain must fall, weeds must be trimmed. It was then they realized that their happiness was as dependent on circumstances as the watermelons. To enjoy the present, the sun must shine, the waves must crash and the watermelon must be able to grow. So the present abandoned them, leaving them only their experiences from the past, and their worries about the future. Plenty of weeds to trim. But with the past came the taste of watermelon that still lingered on the tongue, and with the future came the promise of more moments in which they were present. Melons would grow again, happy moments would occur once more, and again after that, and again after that and the world would be simple. This, amongst all of the world's complications, they could be sure of.