The Market You Think You Know

The smell reaches you first, before you turn into the narrow street.

It is fish and warm bread and something sweet from a stall near the gate.

You walk past this market almost every day on your way home.

Your feet know the way, and they do not slow down for it anymore.

The low roofs hang close over the shops, and the light stays soft and warm.

Water shines on the gray stones where the fish sellers work all morning.

Steam rises from a pot at the food stall, and it carries the smell of soup.

Your shoulder brushes a bucket of green beans as you pass through the gate.

You know the woman who sells apples near the front gate.

She waves at you with one hand, the same small wave every single day.

You pass the man who sells fish, and he calls out the same three words.

"Fresh fish, very fresh." You have heard it a thousand times before.

The shop near the corner still sells the same rice in the same brown sacks.

A radio plays somewhere under all the voices, low and a little scratchy.

The same faces stand behind the same tables, year after year after year.

You think you know every stall on this street by heart.

You stop at the fruit stall, the way you always stop, without thinking.

The apple woman weighs two apples on her old metal scale by the seat.

The scale rocks once and settles with a soft, dull little sound.

You reach for a bag of oranges, and she drops them in with quick hands.

The apple is smooth and cool in your palm, still warm from the sun.

You press it once with your thumb to feel if the fruit is firm.

You pay her and say thank you, and she already knows your tired face.

You walk on, past the shoe shop and the tea shop and the rice shop.

The tea shop near the middle always smells of ginger and warm honey.

The smell follows you for a few steps down the crowded row.

An old woman sorts green onions into small, neat piles on a low table.

Two children run between the stalls with warm bread in their hands.

A cat sleeps on a box of dry fish, curled up in a square of pale light.

A knife taps fast on a wooden board where a man cuts a large fish.

The sounds of the market blur into one warm hum all around you.

Nothing here ever changes. Every stall is where it always is.

You could walk this street with your eyes shut and never get lost.

You like that. The market asks nothing new from you.

But today, near the end of the long row, your feet stop.

There is a small stall here that you have never seen before.

It stands in the corner where an old shoe shop used to be.

The low table is full of fruit, and you do not know a single one.

Small green ones. Round yellow ones. Long red ones in a worn basket.

The colors sit close together like a small, bright painting.

You walk past this exact spot every day of your life.

You never once saw this corner, and you cannot say why.

An old man sits behind the table, quiet and very still.

His hands are worn and brown, and his eyes are soft and kind.

He does not call out to you. He does not wave you over.

A cup of tea sits by his arm, warm and forgotten and half full.

He just watches you look, and he lets your eyes move on their own.

You lean in a little to see the strange fruit in the low light.

Some are smooth and shiny. Some have rough, dry skin like old paper.

A soft, sweet smell rises from the table into the cool evening air.

"You can try one," he says, and points to a small yellow fruit.

You pick one up, and it feels soft and warm in your open hand.

The skin gives a little under the gentle press of your fingers.

He cuts it open with a small, old knife he takes from his pocket.

Inside, the fruit is deep orange and full of thick, sweet juice.

A single drop falls from the blade and lands on the wooden table.

He holds one half out to you on the flat of his open palm.

The smell is warm and sweet, like flowers and rain at the same time.

You take it from his hand, and the wet edge is cool on your fingers.

You taste it slowly. It is sweet, and a little sour, and very fresh.

The juice runs warm across your tongue and down your throat.

You close your eyes for a moment and just hold the taste there.

The sweetness stays soft on the back of your tongue for a while.

You have lived near here for years. You never knew this fruit.

It is new, and still it feels like something you almost remember.

"Where is it from?" you ask him. He smiles and says one word.

"Home." He does not say any more, and you do not need more.

For a moment the loud market feels very far away from you.

The taste stays on your tongue, sweet and strange and completely new.

He wraps a few of the yellow fruit in soft, old brown paper.

His hands move slowly, the way careful, patient hands do.

The paper crackles softly as he folds it around the fruit for you.

You watch the fruit you have never tasted disappear into the bag.

He hands it to you and gives one small, quiet nod of his head.

A small thing. A fruit. And still, something opens in you.

You turn and walk back through the same narrow, noisy street.

The fish man still calls out. The apple woman still waves her hand.

The same lamps shine, and the same wet floor shines back at you.

But now you look at the stalls in a slower, softer way.

You see a small blue door you never noticed near the quiet tea shop.

You see a bird cage hanging high above the old shoe shop sign.

You see a boy drawing shapes in the gray dust by a low wall.

A basket of dried flowers sits behind the woman who sells the rice.

You see a narrow window above the shop near the gate, warm with light.

You wonder what else is here that you have never really seen.

The market near your home is old, and almost always the same.

And still, today, this old place gave you something new.

You hold the warm paper bag close to your side as you walk.

The evening light is soft and gold on the wet stone under your feet.

You still taste the sweet fruit, faint and soft, on your lips.

Tomorrow you will walk this street again, a little more awake.

Maybe you will find another corner you have never really seen.

There is still a little sweet juice drying slowly on your fingers.