There is something so "childhood" about a great big slice of juicy watermelon.
Watching Alexander bite into the juicy pink flesh, as it drips down his arms... chin... shirt...
it just takes me back to the summers of my own youth...
The Christmas holidays most often meant camping in our family.
Mum, and us five kids...
along with Nan and one to six of my cousins would come along.
We would camp by the Murrumbidgee river...
a beautiful, semi~secluded spot with a small beach and a little island.
I can still inhale and capture the scent of the soap cake and the river upon my body at "bath time"...
when we would sneak into the murky water and lather up and take a wash...
the squealing sound of cicadas in the trees...
so many of their shells left behind upon the sturdy trunks of the old trees that surrounded us.
We would take it in turns of collecting the kindling for the fire...
that we would sit around as we shooed the flies from our sausage sandwiches.
I was so envious of my older brother and cousin...
Old enough to sleep in hammocks, strung from trees...
to stay up late and chat into the night...
to swim far upstream, around the bend...
so far from our mother and grandmother's sight...
Unlike us, who shared their tent, swam by their side, walked no farther than in full view.
Woken by the light of sunrise...
as the cicada songs came to a close and the distinct symphony of magpies would begin...
we would fall through the gauze door of the tent...
and spill into the wilderness...
bare feet upon the hard, dry red earth...
and we would race down to the water's edge...
dig our toes deep into the crisp, cool sand...
dare to slowly, slowly edge our feet into the ice cold water...
as it would burn deep into our skin...
the arch of our feet...
shoot high through our legs...
piercing...
and yet somehow...
comforting, awakening.
We would play a short while there, tracing letters in the sand with twigs...
making tiny burrows that would quickly fill with the icy water...
waiting, most often impatiently for breakfast to be served.
As the days would warm, we would be handed giant slices of juicy watermelon...
that would drip down our arms with every sweet bite...
down our chins...
sweet, pink flesh in our mouths...
one hand shooing the flies.
I wish Alexander could have that.
I wish that he could have summers by the river with all of his cousins and his Nan...
Perhaps, somewhere along the way...
I, myself had forgotten what those summers had meant to me...
what they would still mean to me years later...
what they would mean to Alexander if I would share that with him.
While our days are still often spent by the mighty Murrumbidgee...
toes in the sand...
our nights are not spent under the stars...
to the rhythm of the cicada song...
That is something we are still yet to share!
... In the mean time...
There is watermelon!
