Coconut Summers

Aden Jacob

I learned so much from my grandmother—,
how to smell the rain before it arrived,
how to crack open a coconut,
to find the sweetness waiting inside.

She’d take the heavy fruit in her steady hands,
strike it just right,
splitting it open just right,
cool water shimmering in the afternoon light.

I drank it fast, desperate for relief
after hours chasing a ball across dusty fields,
playing with kids who spoke a language I didn’t—
but it never mattered.
Laughter was enough.

The heat clung to my skin, thick and unshakable,
the scent of earth and spice filling the air.
But in that moment, all that mattered
was the coconut, the water,
the hands that had passed it to me.

Back home, coconuts sit untouched on grocery store shelves,
neatly stacked, missing their story.
Here, they’re just another fruit.
But there, in Kerala, they were a gift.
I learned that joy doesn’t have to be complicated,
that the best things are meant to be shared,
that my grandmother’s love tasted like coconut water
on the hottest day of summer.

Even now, if I close my eyes,
I can still taste it.