“Look at this pineapple!” My mother crouches, cradling the gift our summer neighbors brought from Hawaii. I’m four and pat the gold globe like it’s a puppy. Scales scratch my palm, a sword-shaped leaf pricks my finger. I flinch. My mother kisses my hand, then stands and slices the pineapple open. “Oh!” she cries, then laughs as juice streams down the face of the cabinets. We eat from a bowl filled with sunshine. Every bite stings, but the bursts of sweetness make us smile at each other for such serendipity in life, which I already know is like this pineapple.
Kathy Lynn Carroll is a writer and library assistant. Her work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The First Line and 50-Word Stories.