Canes

In one of the fields on the farm,

sugarcane was growing

in an unused irrigation ditch.

Papa asked me one day

if I wanted to eat some sugarcane.

I had never eaten any;

so he led me down the path

to the sugar patch

and introduced me

to a whole new world

of a sugar high.

There were enough towering canes

blowing in the wind that day

to satisfy the sweet tooth

of countless boys.

A tradition was born.

Often Papa and I

would walk down together

to the place where

the sweetness could be found.

I would watch as

he carefully fell

a suitable stalk of sugarcane

with his razor-like machete

and cut it into smaller links.

Then with the keen edge of

his yellow handle Case knife,

he would cut away

the hard outer layer,

exposing the tasty fibers.

Afterwards,

he would cut a bite-size

piece of pulp and

hand it to me to chew on.

Then he would cut him a piece.

It was a time

for sitting down together

within the shadow of the canes

to reflect upon things

while we chewed

on something sweet.

Once the sugary juice

was chewed out,

we would throw away

the pulpy fiber, and

Papa would cut

another chaw.

When our bellies

had their fill

and our thoughts

were collected,

we walked back

to the farmhouse

a little sweeter

than when we left.

In a land known

for hurricanes,

these canes had swept

across the landscape

of a young boy's life

ever so sweetly,

unlike the

bitter kind.