my unspoken promise to a brown banana
I had created an unhealthy attachment to this one banana. It was partly a combination of guilt for the banana itself – not wanting it to feel like it had been abandoned. Guilt too for not wanting to waste food, but also in large part my stubbornness in recognising I would soon need a banana and knowing full well that I would not buy any new ones when I have a perfectly ripe one sitting in my cupboard. In summary, I needed to make my hard earned 20p work for itself.
The love affair began approximately one and a half weeks prior to this very day. Weekends are my time to mosey about in the mornings and indulge in a warm and cozy bowl of porridge with a little cinnamon, honey and of course a chopped up banana. I had spotted a firm yellow bunch of five during my weekly supermarket shop and decided: “I must have you”. I unashamedly took them home with me that night. No dinner date first. No promise of a complimentary taxi ride home afterwards.
The first two were snapped up quickly, used as one of the main stars of a fresh fruit salad a day later. The other two were plucked away and whisked to my place of work to serve as a post-mid-morning-tea-but-pre-late-morning-snack.
And so, there that one banana sat. Alone in a dark cupboard, next to the diminishing pile of clementines and packet of pita bread. How could I possibly be so callous as to say: “It’s not you, it’s me. I’m sorry, there were others… I’ve already reached my banana quota for the day”? I could barely look her in the eye.
Over the course of the next few days, in my peripheral vision, I could see how she was being ravished by the effects of time. Her once youthfully firm, dewy complexion, was becoming littered with age spots, wrinkles and deeply furrowed lines. In my mind, I pledged: ‘One day soon, my love. You will see the inside of that porridge bowl, just a few more days, the weekend is almost upon us’. By the fifth day, she looked as though she would not make it. I made arrangements and had her transferred to the refrigerator hospice and urged her to keep fighting. To her testament, she did. But it was all I could do to keep the smell of death from her. I could no longer bring myself to meet her gaze. Her sticky fermented scent permeated the fridge, the container of rice sitting next to her, the kitchen, and the wider apartment. Its greeting at the front door was akin to that of an obedient puppy rushing fervently towards its owner.
I had downcast eyes whenever I passed my housemates. I knew what they were thinking – I knew they were insinuating the brown squishy lump on my shelf be banished into the depths of the nearest garbage bag. “Nooo!!” I yelled in my loudest mind’s voice. The weekend was just a day away. It would be foolhardy to give in now.
And suddenly, Saturday morning had arrived like a glorious Christmas present sitting wrapped in a bow under the Christmas Tree. I gently eased her from her resting place at the back of the fridge, careful not to have any part of her innards ooze out of her delicate, weathered chocolate brown skin.
The bowl of porridge was fresh out of the microwave, simmering gently and exuding the exotic smells of Tesco honey and cinnamon. I looked at her, smiled lovingly and said: “Darling, you did it. We did it”.
I had myself a double helping of porridge that day.
V.
Sö Sö 