I found myself surrounded by the familiar and tall shelves in the frigid grocery store yet again. It was a late and gloomy Sunday afternoon that felt the same as every other day, but something caught my just barely 9 year old attention that hadn’t ever before. “Mom please! I just want it!” I grasped towards the fuzzy brown coconut that rested gently on the shelf.

 “You are never going to eat it even if I do get it for you,” Mom said with harsh words, grabbing my desperate hands and dragging me away. I went home that day filled to the brim with disappointment. Something deep inside my bones knew that this very coconut would take that feeling away. 

We arrived at home, greeted by the low chatter coming from the old T.V.  The T.V had a built-in VCR that sat on top of the make-shift bookshelf he had built the year prior. He sat still across from it, staring blankly at the screen with a cigarette and drink in hand like he always did when he found his way back to us. I hadn’t seen much of him recently.  “Is he staying this time?” I said, with curious eyes. “Depends.” She always says that. I sunk back into my room, attempting to drown out the constant boom of voices that echoed through our empty walls every night. They’re just talking.  

All I could think about before my mind slowly slipped into sleep was that coconut. I found comfort in the thought of it as I slowly drifted off and began to dream. Hours later, I ripped the covers from my body in order to escape from the same ghastly nightmare that haunted me ever since I was 7. I crept my way to the kitchen to hopefully find something that would hopefully soothe my fear. What I found though, was more terrifying than the dream. 

I pointed my fragile chin up to find him standing in the broken door frame, cracked from top to bottom after the last time he disappeared. We exchanged no words as he picked his bag off the dusty floor and turned his back to me, closing the heavy piece of wood behind him without a sound. The rich, warm smell of his cologne drifted down the hallway, draining out of my heart once more. 

A feeling of emptiness surrounded me as I noticed the red paint, dried and dripping from the nail in the wall as I turned to the kitchen; splatters made from skin against metal and stumbling feet. I sat on the kitchen floor with somber eyes, still thinking about the coconut. 

Hours turned to days, days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, but not for a second did I ever stop thinking about the coconut. I chose to occupy these long days by driving my mother closer and closer to the edge, begging her for the same thing every Sunday. “Please, Momma!” 

“I have told you over and over, no. Why can’t you ever just listen to me?” she spoke, running her fingers through my hair, pushing me further down the aisle. 

This isn’t to say that he didn’t occupy my thoughts either (even though it was mostly the coconut that took up my time). I think Mom thought about him, too, but she never admitted it.  She changed her brand of cigarettes; red to blue.  We rarely turned the VCR T.V on anymore and all the glass bottles full of fire were dumped down the sink. We painted over the red splatter on the walls, and hung the pictures we had printed over it. Yet, when I walked down the halls, it wasn’t the colorful spread of thumbtacks that caught my attention, it was the memory of him that filled my young mind. He still lived in this house, on these walls, no matter how many times he was painted over. “When’s he coming back?” I tugged on Mom’s shirt. 

“I don't know. Finish your dinner.” I stared blankly at the Kid Cuisine that rested on the chipped T.V tray in front of me; tasting the bland food that had absorbed the cardboard box it layed in. It sat, slowly growing colder with the passing minutes.

As me and Mom watched the old reruns that played every day past 7pm, there was a faint and hesitant knock on the door. Maybe he’s here. “That’s probably the rent guy. We were late again.” Mom said, completely ignoring it and beginning to flip through the channels.

 “But-” The words caught in my throat. I realized that if I said what I was thinking out loud, I’d have to face the consequences. 

“It’s so unfair,” I said, pushing the tray away from me and getting up to leave my mother alone on the couch, retreating back to my room once more. Before I could take another breath, Mom pulled me close to her and held me. “I’m sorry.” A waterfall of tears started to stream from my tired eyes. I cried for my mom. I cried for someone I barely even knew.  I cried for that coconut. I cried, longing for things I didn’t yet understand. 

When we pulled ourselves together and came to our senses, there was a knock at the door again. “Jesus Christ,” This time, Mom went to open the door. I stared at the figure in front of me, standing awkwardly in the door. The familiar scent of Crown Royal  and Caribbean coffee filled my lungs and immediately, the warmth was restored into my body. 

My little legs ran as fast as they could to reach the man in the doorframe, hands grasping for anything I could just to feel the comfort of him again. I stopped abruptly,  just about a foot in front of him. I noticed the faded yellow bag with the bland smiley face that read “thanks for coming!” on the back. The same ones that littered the kitchen floor every Sunday evening.

 “What are you doing here?” My mother said, eyes narrowing as she moved in front of me, standing tall with fists clenched.

“I bought her something.” He pointed at me with a small smile on his face. 

“You should go-” I peeked around Mom as she spoke, looking into the bag, only to see exactly everything I wanted and begged for every day of the week. He reached his hand into the bag and pulled out the coconut. My eyes lit up. My coconut.  Mom bursted out with laughter. Laughter I hadn’t heard in a long time. “That damn coconut.” 

He glanced at Mom then down to me again taking a deep breath and bending to my level, “I will have you know, little lady, I brought the necessary tools to bust this bad boy open,” he said pointing to the brown bag sitting on the floor which contained simply a hammer and a screwdriver. He glanced at my mother for approval, to which he got no response. 

“What are we going to do with that?” I said softly. He took mine and Mom’s hesitant hand and led us over to the kitchen floor. 

The rest of the night was spent trying to get this coconut open. Both my mom and him tried every method they could; Mom wouldn’t let me use the hammer though. The linoleum floor beneath us shook with each bang made on the rough surface of the coconut. Eventually, after several failed attempts, the shell was splintered. He pulled it apart and handed half to me. 

A look of confused excitement spread wide across my face as I tore a piece from the white inside of the coconut, examining it closely. The tiny sliver I held in my hand was smooth like the calm waves emanating from the sea before a storm. Its difference from the outside fascinated me. How could something so rough and hard to crack produce something so pretty and fragile? I popped the piece into my mouth, at first it was harsh; a flavor so bitter and cold that it made my face twist upside down. The bitterness quickly dissolved into a sweet, impeccable taste that satisfied all of my long-awaited day dreams. 

“What do you think?” he said, smiling up at me and studying my expression. “It’s perfect.”