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18 Losing the Pink Bananas No longer than my fingers, thicker though, they glowed rosy, a many-handed begging bowl held up to the sky. Huge flower stalk rose straight up, purple minaret. So delicate, so strange, this life. I wanted to show my beloved. But when we retraced half-remembered steps, we could not find them. I asked a man who every day tends this earth, his life planting, feeding, cutting back, and he led us, laughing, gestured toward graceful bells of pink-white ginger, toward bromeliads, tiny bird mouths open inside, toward crab claws of heliconia, 19 all the while warning us we’d need beaks to sample pink bananas—don’t swallow what’s invisible. ...

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