The morning came on, bright and clear. There were barely any clouds in the sky, and the chance of rain was negligible. By the woman’s side, the eight year-old girl was sitting, looking at the fruit in front of her. She knew some of them of course. Who wouldn’t? Involuntarily, her tongue ran over her lips. She began to think of their names. That one was a papaya. Everyone knew that. The skin was a smooth looking orange. She knew it would taste just right. It wasn’t too ripe, nor was it too hard. Not that she would have cared either way at the moment. Her mother used to squeeze the juice of a lime on it. Her tongue came out of her mouth a little. Ah, there was a lime. There was a small pile of them, about nine or ten. Next to them were three pineapples. She thought long and hard. The interior of a pineapple was yellow, juicy, and sweet. But there was something she didn’t like about them. What was that? Ah, yes, they had a prickly skin, and the leaves were painful too, if they caught you the wrong way. She began to laugh silently, but only for a short moment. She didn’t have the energy these days for much. There were bananas, oranges and apples. But there were also some types of fruit she didn’t recognise. There were some small round ones, with a yellow skin. There was one big one in the centre. It must be heavy, she thought. It looked shiny and hard with a bright green skin. She thought long and hard, but could think of anywhere this fruit might grow.
The ache in her stomach returned, and she looked up at the woman, who was now reclining next to the trunk of a small thorn tree.
‘Mum,’ she whispered.
The woman didn’t move or open her eyes. The girl tried again.
‘Mum, are you alright? Mum, look at this.’
The woman stirred and looked at the fruit.
‘Yes, my dear, they look wonderful, don’t they?’
She wiped a tear away from her cheek.
‘What’s this on?’ asked the girl, pointing to the big green fruit in the centre.
‘That’s a coconut. You can’t find them here. They need water.’
‘Mum, why are you crying?’
The woman wiped another tear away, using the sleeve of her blouse.
‘I am unhappy because I cannot do things for you, I cannot take care of you as a good mother should. That’s why.’
The little girl put her arm around her mother’s thin body.
‘You are a very good mother, and I love you for that.’
They hugged each other. A gentle breeze took the edge off the heat for a few minutes. A few small birds sang on and off in the trees. The muted talk of the other people began to come back to the girl. She picked up the torn magazine photograph, and looked again at the fruit. She turned to her mother. ‘Maybe one day, I can see and touch a coconut. I will share it with other people.’
The mother looked at her, thought of talking, but began to cough. She stroked the girl’s hair.
An army officer walked by, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. A murmur went up from the mass of people in the camp.
On the horizon, they could see the dust of the lorries. They might bring something to eat.
‘Yes,’ said the mother, ‘maybe one day you can have a coconut. That is what I hope for you.’
597 words
© Richard Homer 2008
