Bananas

As old hazel eyes crinkle open like the pale blue sheets she rests on, she glances out the windowpane, streaked with tears from the early-morning thunderstorms. Enormous leaves bent with the force of the storm plaster the frame and she looks away as she slowly pushes herself up onto the creaky hardwood floor, heavy leather shoes scuffing along the way.

She arrives earlier than almost everyone else but the usual vendors begin to trickle in, setting up their booths and adjusting their handmade signs. They lay out the fresh, and slightly bruised or stale, fruits and vegetables and baked goods – recipes that never needed to be written down.

Single rays of sunlight peak through reluctant strokes of clouds and strike the bright yellow of her banana booth; only 10 cents per pound. In fact the whole market becomes a rainbow just as the early crowd begins to bustle from stall to stall, carefully examining something as simple as an orange, twisting it around their fingers and squinting, pinching, searching for any sort of minuscule imperfection.

The day fluctuates as normal, between the hours of boredom, tapping feet along the pavement, and the moments when one can hardly keep track of who ordered or paid for what over the yelling demands of sweaty faces and the jingle of change as it shuffles from hand to hand. At least this hasn't changed she thinks. She can remember being a little girl, the constant sun beating down upon her slender, dark shoulders grasping her mother's hand and watching the constant blur of exchange between customer and vendor, the colors all swirling together.

But most significant, she remembers the vibrant yellow of her Mama's banana trees, sprouting in the yard back home, far across the sea. And after the sales from the day when she lies back down on those crinkly pale blue sheets, she can almost see the bright yellow fruit peeking at her from beyond the window pane.

© Michael L. Carlebach
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