dreams: March 1, 1999
I'm in a kitchen. Mom is cutting up a persimmon. She pulled it out of the silverware drawer. It is small and dark red. She is slicing it with a knife. I'm reading from Li-Young Lee's poem, "Persimmons," following the guidance of how to eat the fruit. I tell Mom that it must be ripe -- ripe to the point of soft mushiness when you squeeze it. The skin must be dark. "You cut it with your knife," I say. I try a piece. It tastes very good. I'm not sure if it's ripe enough though. Are we doing it the wrong way, like Americans? I feel a bond with Mom. I see that she has put long overripe strips of the fruit back in the silverware drawer; it looks like mango, orange and soft. I laugh that she put it in the drawer. I take a sip from a cup of milk on the counter. It has lots of cinnamon in it. Very yummy.
eating a persimmon
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