pineapple

My grandmother clutched the golden fruit like a trophy, her weathered hands trembling with joy. In our Tamil Nadu village, pineapples were rare treasures. She'd won it at the harvest festival for reciting our ancestor's poetry—verses celebrating earth's bounty, passed down through generations. My brother eyed it resentfully while I grinned mischievously, imagining the taste. Mother laughed at our scheming. That evening, we gathered around the worn wooden table, sharing sweet slices under the lamp's warm glow. The fruit tasted like recognition, like her voice mattering. Like stories finally harvested and honored. Together, we savored it.