el melón

It was twenty years ago now that Raul’s mother stopped moving. It was a warm day, a day that woke his tongue first, the sweetness of ripe melon and papaya so thick that you could taste without eating. This made Raúl hungry. Because smelling (even with your tongue) is one thing and eating is another. He went into the kitchen and found his mother with arms folded and head down on the table where they ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He called to her as he walked across the kitchen tile, careful not to knock over any one of the menagerie of pots—housing herbs, orchids, and sapling starts—that littered all the horizontal surfaces between them.

Mamá.

She was asleep.

Or something.

He touched her shoulder and one of her arms slipped off the table as she rolled unnaturally, forearms and forehead impressed with the flora of the lace tablecloth, her skin embossed with a mendhi as though she were an Indian bride-to-be.

It was then obvious to Raúl. Her body was here, but she was gone. She smelled like clay. The earthen scent of her choked Raúl with its insistence. He was afraid.

It is okay for this to be frightening to Raul. He is only six.