Grapefruit

My wife screams that we’ll have to move again if I don’t put it behind us and find work soon. The second time in six months. Once these kinds of arguments begin they never seem to end. The blame volleys back and forth until hurtful words finally reduce us to something smaller than we already are. So instead of replying I go outdoors and sit on the front porch. On the opposite side of the closed door my wife still shouts. The sun has already come up behind the houses across the street. Looking down past my bare feet to the bottom of the steps, I notice the red clay pot and my wife’s tiny grapefruit tree that grows inside of it. The leaves have yellowed. A single grapefruit bows one of the sickly branches. I have an urge to walk down the steps and pluck that grapefruit off the branch, peel away its coarse skin, thumb it in half and break it apart into segments. Then I‘d like to grind each of those segments between my teeth and swallow the bitter bites. But I don’t do that. Instead, I remain seated at the top of the steps, staring down at the tree, wondering how long before the branch finally breaks from the weight of the fruit.