After my stepson’s mother tells me she is having another baby in January
By Maegan Gonzales
I run myself a hot bath and soak until the water cools to lukewarm, trying to forget the roads that connect our houses. In the grocery store, I stand in front of the avocado display. There are thirteen and all too green. I try to think of a New Year’s resolution that someone might keep like—Plant a fruit tree. I cradle a small oval and pulse my palm testing for ripeness, hoping its green is deceiving me. Once, I read somewhere that avocado trees flower perfectly with both male and female parts, so no need for two trees. I trace each letter on my grocery list until the round bellies of my b’s and p’s make words again. At home, my avocadoes have gone bad at the bottom of an iron fruit basket. Their darkness stands out from orange citrus, skins dimpled and over-ripe. I split each pear-shape and expose the seed, scoop the yellow-brown mush from the leathery walls, salt the souring flesh and taste it. I pierce a single seed with toothpicks and set it in a water jar, bottom-half submerged.
Maegan Gonzales is an interdisciplinary southern artist, writer, certified yoga instructor, and educator. She was born in south-central Texas and is currently located in southwest Louisiana where she teaches Composition and Literature at McNeese State University. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Bear Review, Common Ground Review, Salt Hill, Northwest Review, Midway Journal, Potomac Review, New Orleans Review, and more.
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So lovely.