The inventor of rhubarb

Look at her, you’d think she invented rhubarb. Rills of juice run down her chin, dribbling onto her fresh blouse. She’s wearing that big semi-toothy grin and holding onto those stalks like they were baby dolls bust out of Christmas wrapping. Golden-delicious sunshine all over her face, and her hair a scatter of blonde firecrackers set off a little too close.

Sometimes I think it’s okay to love her. Mostly I don’t admit it, but sometimes it’s all right as long as I keep it to myself.

Lord, that rhubarb. I don’t guess it’ll ever taste as tart. Even if she didn’t invent it, I don’t think she could ever improve upon it. This is how it should be, how it should always be. But nothing ever lasts, and I don’t think a person’s heart could stand it if it did.

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13 thoughts on “The inventor of rhubarb

  1. One of the many “country boy” memories city kids likely never shared. Something about the first sting of biting into the stalks that shout, “Why did I do this?” But back we would go driven by hunger and the near-addicting qualities of the magical plant. Back yard gardens and random clumps found here and there were sometimes all we could scrounge between meals and supplemented green apple and elderberry snacks. Belly aches no additional charge.

    Liked by 1 person

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