Lychee

For my Father, on Father’s Day

they came in paper bags

still warm from the sun

clusters of lychee

their rough red skins stacked high

under weathered umbrellas

on the streets of Chinatown

my dad always knew

which cart had the best ones

he would lift them up to the light

like he was weighing jewels

choosing carefully

like it mattered

and it did

we would walk the crowded streets

side by side

peeling them open as we went

he would show me how to crack the skin

just right

thumb pressing gently until it gave way

revealing the fruit inside

soft

translucent

glowing

I remember the feel of it in my palm

the way the juice dripped down my wrist

the way we laughed when it did

lychee tasted like something

from another world

sweet

perfumed

too tender

for a city that never stopped shouting

but somehow

with him

it all quieted

in those moments

the city held its breath

just a father and child

eating fruit in the sun

I was thirteen when he died

and for years after

I couldn’t eat lychee

it felt too close

too holy

like eating memory

like tasting something

that should’ve vanished with him

but hadn’t

years later

I bought a small bag

I don’t know why

maybe

I needed him

maybe

I just wanted to see

if the taste remembered me too

I peeled one slowly

and the scent bloomed in the air

sweet and sharp

and exactly like all those years ago

I took a bite

and time folded

suddenly I was back there

a child and father

his coat brushing my shoulder

his hand steady

his voice low

teasing me for always saving the last one

I stood in the present

tears on my face

fruit in my hand

the world spinning quietly around me

lychee still tastes like love to me

like the kind of safety only a father can give

like something impossibly tender

that the world can’t quite take away

especially today