Sitting on my desk was something so new, exotic, and mysterious
that I didn’t know what to do. There was no way I could have prepared for this
moment. There was no way anyone could have prepared for this. There, sitting on
my desk, was a single sliced kiwi. Considering my adolescent taste buds only
let macaroni and Gushers pass the front gate, I originally refused. Besides, no
one was in my room so no one could make me eat it. No one but myself.

First, I did
the smell test. Nothing too strange, but nothing too familiar.

Next, the lick
test. Soft, mushy, sweet. Like a plum.

Then, the bite.

I wish I could recount the wondrous sensation that fruit had in my
mouth or the utter taste taking me to another realm, but it was nothing
much.  I was afraid this is what
adulthood would be like. As I sat there, a changed woman, someone entered the
door. This man was new. Not just to me, but to life.  I could tell before he walked into my room,
this man did not exist. Under my breath, I muttered:

“I’ll call you
Kiwi.”

From that day forward, we were inseparable.  I brought him to school, home and everywhere
in between. He told me about his travels, and I would reenact SpongeBob
episodes for him. We laughed, we cried, but we never fought.

My other friends always asked what Kiwi looked like, but he didn’t
have a face. The only reason I knew he was a boy was because of his big hands.
To my six-year-old brain, that was what gender meant. The size of your hands. The
space where a face should be always changed. Sometimes, it was just a black
hole, sometimes it was a starry night. For some reason, he always wore green
pants. Kiwi was a pretty great guy, I just wished he would want to play with my
other friends as well. Besides, everyone needs a little space.

originally published on Crybaby Zine