summer fruit

Chengdu is hot, and here the heat carries with it the construction and chemistry of an ever-expanding city. Each avenue has cranes lifting buildings to scrape the sky. There are the workers fitting the beams and concrete spines, and there is the detritus that is falling. Falling on us, falling on the trees, falling on our view. Each breath has a tinny taste and the sky has traded blue for silver grey. But there are also sweet tastes along the streets. The fruit vendors know that breaking into ripe fruit will help you forget the summer heat. I asked a vendor about the box of round purple fruit with little green leaves and stems. Mangosteens. She took one, plucked off the top, twisted the body until it cracked. She turned the exposed insides to me and I took a piece, ate it. Its pulp was sweet and humid and difficult to pin down. And good. Good like summer-warmed fruit can be good. And good because it reminds you that not every great thing is defined by being the tallest, the fastest, the brightest. Sometimes it just has to be the sweetest.