He walked into the supermarket Sunday morning. He picked up a Sunday paper and headed toward the produce aisle. He looked over the produce unsure of what he was searching for. He spotted dried fruits and on the same shelf, fresh dates. He picked up the dates, smiled and headed toward the cashier. He walked home and opened the dates. His wife asked him why he had purchased them. He was unsure how to respond because it seemed obvious. Memories of making date and nut cookies with his grandmother came flooding back.
He was eight and he wielded a pair of scissors as big as his forearm. He cut dates, placing some in a pile and eating the rest. One for the cookies and one for me. One for the cookies and one for me. He enjoyed the taste of the dates. They taste almost like honey. They have a sweet taste, but not too sweet.
He opened the container grabbed one of the dates and popped it into his mouth. He bit into the soft chewy fruit, careful to not bite down on the pit contained in the fleshy center. The moist, gritty taste brought back memories, memories of his grandmother and the time spent with her. That time was as sweet as the taste of the dates.