28 June, 2009
Walking through your farm, thirsty, you duck behind the shadows of a grapefruit tree. With studied precision, you lob your arm upwards and then gently tap a grapefruit at its navel with the blade of your machete. The fruit plops down into your awaiting hand. Gracefully, you untwine the rind into one yellow ribbon. Slicing through the fruit, its juices trip between your fingers.
We share the sweet sunshine taste, and wonder why grapefruits are so sour elsewhere, away from the farm, from Grenada, and from the sourcing silence of this hot afternoon. Finished, we wipe our hands on our trousers and continue on our way.