The tart yet sweet scent of the juice took me on a mental journey back to my youth. My Grandma Kathy would eat a ruby red grapefruit every morning. The sharp knife made it’s way around the rose colored fruit as I carefully released it from its’ skin being careful to get as close to the pith as I could so I didn’t waste any of the precious fruit. Next I sliced each section as closely to the white membrane separating each piece. I always preferred tart tastes to sweet, Margaritas, sour patch kids, lemon. If she wanted to be fancy she would add a cherry to the very center before she served it up. I wanted to reach for my phone and call my Grandma Kathy to tell her about my blessed life. I wanted to share the news we are expecting another new baby early next year. She always loved the babies so. They were new and held such great possibility. They were hope of a new and unique chapter to add to the story of our family.

It had been too long since I had delighted in a grapefruit for breakfast and many years since I had enjoyed a conversation with her.

I looked at the bowl of fruit on the counter where five more rested. Tom had remarked yesterday, “Those will go bad before you eat them all.”

I hoped not.

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