The tough, leather-paper skin 

Hiding caviar of the tropics –  

Slippery seeds swimming in their wrinkled husks.  

 

Passion fruit.  

 

Years have passed since I tasted  

the sickly sweet, dainty fruit. 

Since I’ve heard the sharp ringing  

music of gamelan – an orchestra of bells.  

 

I wept. 

 

But only once,  

Thirteen and bereft after the first day.  

New school,  

New life,  

New “home”.  

 

I remember.  

 

My mother’s whispered promise: 

“you can be whoever you want in America” 

Change your name, your clothes, your identity.  

Blend, but don’t forget who you are,  

Or where you came from.  

 

It is normal, this change,  

A part of growing up and becoming  

Someone new. 

 

I left it behind,  

But why do I sometimes find myself 

Happy, anxious, loved,  

 

And yearning for passion fruit?