Kathleen Driskell

In first grade, you met Squanto, nearly naked and on his haunches, showing those thick-headed pilgrims how one must plant fish to grow maize. And in autumn you dove into the lobotomized pumpkin, into the gooey pulp and seeds, raising a clump like a slimy chandelier from the Titanic. And now in late summer, daughter, you smile, holding a ripe watermelon, cut in half, exposing the black seed within its bright red heart. Your melon. How proud you are to think you grew this delicious thing all on your own.