The Strawberry

I am dissecting a strawberry.

I set my tools down on the cutting board to see how it will feel: a paring knife, a pair of tweezers. 

First, I slide the knife around the stem, careful not to cut too deep. Once I trace the circle, I pull the calyx free. Swirling shades of red coat the insides. Second (and this takes a while), I use the tweezers. They don’t grip well—worn out from jittery moments before first dates, and later, from preparations for anniversary celebrations, and later, from splinters in my son’s skin—and I drag my nail across the edges to clean them off.

I pluck the seeds one by one.

Strawberries are the only fruits to wear their seeds on the outside. In fact, the seeds aren’t considered true seeds, and the strawberry isn’t considered a true berry. Each seed is an ovary and each ovary contains a seed within it.

I deposit them on the cutting board to form a row of white, yellow, brown ovaries. Sad small spots separated from the swollen tissue that is the berry.

“Are you ready?” He shouts around the kitchen door.

The dissected strawberry is in my hand. Red, screaming red and raw.

“Yes.”

The surgery doesn’t last long. While I’m under, I dream of the lone strawberry on the counter, embarrassed by its barren body. I see seeds snaking around the cutting board. The strawberry aches in my hand.

When we return home later that day, the seeds are still lined up as they were. But they have turned black. As I make my way to our bedroom to rest, I see him cleaning the kitchen. He brushes the seeds from the cutting board with a swipe of the hand.

Today, I dissected a strawberry.