I loved eating watermelon in the summer. I had a secret strategy. First I would eat the middle section, the one at the very tip of the wedge. I called this the “royal section.” It tasted perfectly sweet, seedless, and privileged. Then I would break apart the seeded layer with my fingers, pulling out the seeds before they could reach my mouth. I liked this part of the watermelon, but the risk of crunching a black seed in my teeth was high.
One day, I had nagged my father to cut some watermelon since late morning. He finally gave in by the late afternoon, and the sun’s rays lay in warm streaks across The Very Hungry Caterpillar. I liked it not for its story but for its illustrations, which looked like something I could make with finger-paint and water.
My father talked to me as he chopped, and the sucking, juicy noises of chopping accompanied him, like hearing two conversations at the same time. I can’t remember what he talked about. I just remember the way all the noises stopped, after a sharp scream. He didn’t tell me what had happened, just cried. I went over and looked and saw the finger lying in a pool of pinkish watermelon juice, the tip of the finger wrinkled like he’d just taken a bath. I couldn’t even bear the sight of raw meat; how was I supposed to bear a severed finger?
