It was a few months before

I could eat an avocado again.

They were a sort of ritual with us,

we had one with our evening meal,

half for me and half for you.

When you were here.

 

It always was a risk.

They were such temperamental things!

Sometimes their skins were thick and leathery

you couldn’t tell until you’d cut the flesh

if they were hard as rock or edible.

 

The smooth ones often had no taste.

And then, there were the deceiving ones.

They looked and felt so good

but inside lurked a monumental stone

so big that there was hardly any room

for the avocado.

 

But sometimes, just to make it all worthwhile

we’d find the perfect one.

Delicately scented flesh

and the softness of butter.

The most delicious taste of all.

 

The first time I ate avocado

after you’d gone, I cried.

And I buy little avocados now,

designed especially for lonely people,

to eat on their own.