When I was young,
I used to hate the taste of grapefruit juice.
My mother would get it for
Her gastrics,
Her diet,
Her tongue,
and Her Cocktails.
But for me, there was nothing.
It was, as I had described it:
Too bitter!
Too sweet!
Too sharp!
Too neat!
And with a hue of Pink that felt quite unfashionable for my tastes.
But despite these adamant protests…
She continued her purchase of the garish concoction.
So, as time went on, I became accustomed to its revolting flavor.
Its luscious hints at a velvety sort of saccharine still left me saddened however,
Since the tart curl it blanketed on my tongue soon began to feel like a betrayal.
Why can’t I get my sweetness without this unwanted tang?
What’s a gal to gain?
Surely there’s a way to get that kind of flavor without a needless sacrifice!
And maybe, If I’m lucky, I don’t need to find a way to “make it work”.
When I was a growing,
I used to ignore the taste of grapefruit juice.
With a bit more freedom and a bit more money, I went out to hunt the taste I needed.
In the winter, I found that chocolate and butterscotch could be my new best friends.
The needed warmth they’d bring,
Free and uncommitting,
Felt right for me.
The silky cream and honeyed laps of gentle presence were just what I’d been needing.
With them, I never felt the bitter sting of feigned affection,
The momentary kindness the grapefruit would drench me with being a distant memory,
A nostalgia, for some.
Not for me,
Until of course I felt the sickness that came with too much syrup.
When I was mature,
I used to allow the taste of grapefruit juice.
By spring, I became acquainted with the honesty of strawberry and mint.
Fresh dollops of a sharp sort of sweet,
Unlabored by acidity,
and Unburdened by overtness,
Left me enamored in a world of balanced affections.
However, I was soon re-introduced to my old unwanted friend through the means of Gin,
Vodka,
and Liquor.
Once again, I felt the unwelcome sting of that flavor I once loathed but, at least now,
I couldn’t tell which was hurting more.
So I went on in my tristes with these sultry three, though soon, I felt something
amiss. As when my early years waned, and solitude set in, I began to understand, and
feel, The roots of my mother’s addiction.
When I was aging,
I loved the taste of grapefruit juice.
Long gone was my need for the subtle as I found the Pink blessing appealing.
Its Bluntness,
and Cruelty,
That my familiar foe had brought,
Freshened my glass once more without a moment’s hesitation.
I never needed any sort of better treatment,
That sort of thing belonged to those who needed it,
Since, for me, the disheartening taste of a dishonest drink,
The unwelcome snap that’d come halfway down the glass,
Reminded me of where I began.
And so, of course, it was needed.
But the pain it provided,
The disrespect it harbored,
and The disloyalty it held,
Hurt more with each passing hour.
Why had I returned to what wronged me so before?
What shackles ripped me back here?
Was this punishment?
Duty?
Fate? Or something worse…
Where was the hope I once held out for tastes better than this?
Would it ever return?
Can I ever feel it again?
And for what seemed like an age,
I waited.
But now that I have years behind me,
My time with cups, glasses, and shots, long felt.
I carry pride in myself, and humility to, when I reach for a bottle these days.
As I am old,
I forget the taste of grapefruit juice.
My falls are now spent in the company of nutmeg and cinnamon.
In a moment, I can rely on the fragrant smoothness of simplicity,
Since now, deception is a crude impossibility.
With froth, heat, woodsmoke, and sugar,
I am well met with the kind of kindness I fantasized about long, long ago. The ills
of deception, longevity, duality, and remorse no longer a part of my palette, But
instead,
A lesson for where I wish to be.
I cannot thank that for which has wronged me,
That extension of mercy being something even my wisdom can’t bestow.
But, for a moment,
I like to think that things were always meant to be this tender.
That someday, even I,
Could feel the sort of sweetness that my mother always carried,
and Smile.
–Jorge Biaggi