to the king of fruits

annie trinh

I remember the day I saw you.

I came with my parents, wearing a worn-out cotton t-shirt and faded blue jeans. I was nervous. My Grandpa decorated the house with tiny kumquat trees and draped the ceiling with red paper lanterns and banners saying, “Welcome to the Year of the Rat.” And everyone was dressed elegantly: silk gowns made from the finest cocoons of the mulberry worms, jade necklaces and bracelets dug from the caves of Vietnam hanging from their wrists and necks while the gemstones clicked and clanked as they showed their status.

Then you came.

You looked majestic, your body decorated with miniature brown-green stalagmites. You sat on a porcelain platter, surrounded by newborn peaches and pears. And everyone adored you, your majesty. My relatives giggled like children getting red envelopes filled with money for the first time. Their fingers twitched and their mouths watered as they took a knife and pierced through your rind. You smelled, some said, of sweet intoxicating red bean paste from mooncakes. But your stench trapped me—drowned my lungs in a sea of decaying doe carcass. They opened your shell, and a yellow larva rested inside your body. Then one by one my relatives picked up golden nuggets, gulped them down, and asked for more.  

My King, you had so much power over my family they questioned my taste. They said I must eat you. I must eat since it’s tradition. I told them I didn’t care about tradition—that I wanted to eat the mangosteen because at least she helps us, providing nutrients and resources compared to you. You, who do nothing, sit on your silver throne while expecting everyone to hearken.

When I told them no they rolled their eyes; some even snickered, whispering how foolish I was. My cousins told me to stop being a baby. My aunts and uncles promised I’d grow to love you. Family friends whispered to one another, saying they couldn’t believe I would disobey the King. Even worse, my mom and dad said I was being an embarrassment. Then Grandpa gently grabbed my hand, his face wrinkled and pasty white, saying, “Please child. Eat, it’s Vietnamese New Year’s Day.”

I couldn’t say no to my Grandpa. He was old, living probably the last few years of his life, and could die anytime.

So I picked up your leathery flesh and took a bite. My eyes watered and burned as the creamy pulp scraped and scorched the back of my throat. I said you tasted great. Grandpa smiled, all the guests nodded, then they faced back to you and ate until there was none left.

The day after the celebration, you started to appear everywhere. At the dinner table beside the dishes, at school hidden within my lunches, at the supermarket beside the mangos—convincing me to be with you and listen to your every demand, just like my family.  But my dear King, no matter how much you follow and try to convince me, my answer will always be the same as on that day when you clawed down my esophagus and bled into my veins. You seeped into my bones as I rushed to the bathroom, faced the toilet, grabbed the rims, and gagged, forcing everything out—making sure to never let you in.