A Lesson Learned the Hard Way

The grocery store was more empty than usual this evening, which always makes maneuvering easier. As I was nearly out of fruit, I browsed the produce section, and decided on a Honeydew, priced at $0.78/lb. Rather steep, but a Honeydew would be wonderful with yogurt in the morning, so I
"squeezed the universe into a ball/ To roll it toward some overwhelming question," that question being "Is it ripe?" I am not well versed in melon-selecting methods, but I do know that the stem area should depress under your thumb. I found one that did squish well, not too much, not too little, and put it in the cart.

I confidently placed it on the cutting board, sure it was ready for dissection. Another day or two might put it past its prime. The blade sliced through quietly and precisely, and behold! A 1/4" halo of pale green fading into depths of Winter white. My Honeydew was gasping its last, pleading groan, "Honey don't!" However, it was too late. I had "forced the moment to its crisis," and there was no turning back.

I sliced the melon, skinned it, and cut it into bite-sized chunks, enough to fill a one gallon bag. I tasted a few pieces along the way, wanting to be absolutely sure it was somewhat edible. It had a hint of sweetness, a foreshadowing of the honey-like sweetness and dew-kissed coolness it would have had. It is hard, a crunchy melon. I learned the hard way that there's more to ripeness than a stem that compresses. However, I learned another thing I could not have possibly learned had I been an expert melon picker: Unripe Honeydews are paradoxes. Pieces taken from the greenest sections were the hardest and most tasteless. Only the death-white heart was soft and delicious. The inside of the cup was clean, but the outside was deceptive. Beauty is only skin-deep. Life flows outward from the heart, and death gives birth to a life abundant.