Alligator Pears

In a land where the river was filling with salt, and the water was creeping into the garden patch, the iguanas climbed high and the sloths slunk low, and the natives called the avocados “alligator pears.”  

The big green fruit was infamous for its pebbly skin.  Some claimed they were reptile eggs, and if you planted the pit on the flood plain, you’d grow a nest of lizards.  But no one could think of a good reason to test this theory, so the rumor spread unchecked.

The biggest avocado tree grew on a lonely road in back of a cottage filled with sea shells and wild poinsettias where lived two sisters named Mary and Cheri.  The women were once blue-eyed and blonde, but they’d lived on this sunny shore so long, their shoulders and faces were perennially tanned, and their cobalt eyes had mellowed into a golden green.  They had come from California and when they’d found the avocados they knew they’d come home.  

Neither Mary nor Sheri could remember how long they’d been there.  In fact, every few decades they changed their names, so no one would suspect that they were the same two women who never aged, who’d been teaching the town folk about the beautiful avocados for many generations.

As Molly and Charlotte, they’d taught their neighbors to slice the fleshy fruit into salads, and to mash them up and spread them on toast.  As Cherilyn and Marilyn, they spread the magic of guacamole, and as Carrie and Maddie they taught their neighbors that avocados could be used instead of lard in pastries and cakes.  

But now Mary was tired and wanted to do nothing more than to slice an alligator pear in half, remove the pit and eat the flesh with a small sharp spoon.

Cheri was concerned for her sister.  She cooked red beans and rice, lentil stews, whole grain breads with hand-ground nut butter, but Mary eschewed protein and ate nothing but avocados.  Cheri tried to entice her with the sweetest figs, the ones with purple black skin and red flesh.  She brought her pink grapes that tasted like cotton candy and spiced almonds that tasted the way jasmine smelled on a warm night.  But Mary wasn’t interested.  “We were dreaming when we came to this place,” she told Cheri.  “I think we invented this coastline.  It didn’t exist until we woke up from a long nap.”

Cheri could do nothing but agree, even as she watched her sister shrinking and fading.  Mary’s hair was the color of water now.  Her feet were small and stumpy, and her fingers were short.  

Sometimes, after Cheri was asleep, Mary would go outside to plant the avocado pits in the soil—not because she wanted more trees, no, the one tree was enough.  She went out because she loved the feel and smell of the damp loamy soil—and she wanted to marry the seed and the dirt—as a gift to them both.

One afternoon when Cheri was out shopping, she met a child with wings in the back seat of a taxi.  They exchanged a startled look of recognition.  Cheri quickly reached over and grasped the girl’s thin arm, afraid she would escape.  “Which one are you?” she asked boldly, for she knew an angel confronted directly could not lie. 

The angel lifted her chin and stared into Cheri’s eyes.  “They call me Michael, Warrior Archangel.  Lead me where I need to go.”

Cheri smiled and took the angel’s hand.  She could be gentle now, but she would not let go.  She directed the driver to take them home, and gave him a large tip when he did so.

They arrived just before sun down.  Mary was seated in contemplation beneath the arms of the avocado tree.  When she saw Michael she arose, and the two of them moved slowly to embrace each other, as befit the meeting of icons.  “Come inside,” Mary invited with an enthusiasm she had not felt in months.  “We will have a feast!—guacamole, avocado salad, and chocolate avocado cake for dessert!”

Michael glowed in the twilight, and the sisters felt blessed. 

Photo by Bethany Randall on Unsplash