Warm summery sunshine gleemed off my sister’s golden curls as she ran across the lush grass toward an old, round wooden cable spool on it’s side – a makeshift table my dad had put in the middle of the yard. He was wearing a threadbare button down shirt, (as he usually did in the summer months) paired with his bib-overalls – the kind with the hammer hook on the side that makes a perfect gripping spot for little girls hands. He held a large and well worn butcher knife in one massive hand. Under the other he steadied a well ripened watermelon, two tone stripes running across it’s oblong body, one side slightly flattened, with a yellow hew to its skin from laying in the dirt as the melon grew. My sister and I looked up in anticipation at his weathered face. The ripe melon split with a crack under the blade as the pressure of the fruit inside caused it to burst free of the imprisoning rind. Selflessly, he cut a sliver out of the center of the melon and held it out… selflessly, because as we all know, the heart is the sweetest part.