I hated cherries as a kid: the gritty way my teeth scraped against the pit, the tingling sensation its sour-sweet flesh created on the hinge of my jaw, and the fruit’s spiteful habit of staining my fingertips red. 

Every summer, my dad would purchase a bag of cherries from the local farmstand and  make a show of eating them on our front porch. First, he’d grip the cherry by its slender stem, dangling the tart fruit above his mouth before plopping it in. Then, he’d chew with his mouth open, reminiscent of a cow gnawing on cud, before spitting the pit onto the front lawn. I hated when my bare feet collided with the graveyards of gummy seeds. He’d leave the pits in the grass because he hoped one would sprout into a cherry tree someday.

“Kate,” he’d say as I brushed the goo off of my foot. “Just try one. They’re sweet this year, tastes like candy.”

I’d grab one from the bag, tentatively, and roll it around in my palm. It felt stout against my love line. Then I’d watch the next-door neighbor water her catmint, coneflower, and marigolds. Still stalling, I’d listen deeply, the biggest fan of cicadas harmonizing during their nightly choir practice. 

“C’mon,” he’d coax, “I promise you’ll like it.”

I’d take a delicate bite, splitting the skin until the juice made my lips pucker and nose crinkle. Then, I’d spit the half-eaten cherry into the sidewalk’s crack and join my dad on the front stoop. “They’re sour.”

My dad would sigh, the sound coming from the pit of his stomach. He’d stare into the street, remembering: “Your mom used to hate cherries too. I guess she got hold of a whole can once and ate the entire thing with a spoon. It made her sick. I guess she associated cherries with that.” Then he’d squeeze my shoulder and whisper, “But she liked cherries before.”

I’d try to remember. Remnants of her still existed in a blurry montage: my mom planting roses in the garden; my mom praying over the steam of her morning coffee; my mom in the hospital with half of her hair shaved off for surgery; my mom sleeping in a closed casket with roses on top; my mom’s name, Teena, carved into swirled marble. Her sister says she loved lavender bubble baths and stray animals. She hated the traffic in New York City and she hated cherries. 

I remembered so little about her that I sculpted part of my identity around hating cherries to cling to my evaporating memories of her. 

Six months after her death, my dad remarried. A couple years later, my childhood home sold. We got a new house with a new porch. I went to a new school and made new friends who assumed my parents had divorced. I explained the pit in my life, finding ways to avoid sympathy. My dad kept buying plastic bags of cherries and devouring them on the front steps. To me, his cherries tasted bitter, plucked from a tree before they could fully ripen.

I thought I’d always hate cherries, even though my dad never stopped making me try them. After I got older and moved away, he’d still pull out a bag of cherries every time I came home to visit.  

“Kate,” he’d say, “Just try one. You’ll like it.”

One summer, I reached my hand into the bag and took out a cherry. The fruit felt cold and heavy in my palm. I studied the beads of condensation that had formed while it was in the bag. I picked it up by the stem and dangled it over my open mouth and then, like Eve, I took a bite. It tasted like summertime, and I wondered how many things I had neglected to let myself enjoy because I had been grieving. I still missed her, but the cherry tasted sweet, almost like candy. I liked that it was tart. 

“It’s bittersweet,” I said.

 My dad nodded and squeezed my shoulder, “Most things are.”

__________

Kathryn McDanel is currently a blog writer and photographer at Globalteer. Her work has been featured in Atlas Obscura, Oakland Arts Review, High Shelf Press, and other literary journals.