Bananas at night, Cheyenne Botanic Gardens

This is just to say…

At night, when I clean the Botanic Gardens Conservatory, I unlock the door to the tropical wing, sneak in with my stepladder, and eat a banana. Just one at a time, so nobody notices. Short squat bananas, the size of a deli dill pickle. More yellow than the store-bought variety brought from far away, their skin thick and tough, designed by science to cushion the rough handling of pickers and packers and sorting machines. But this banana? Grown right here, from a tree transported from Honduras. The staff planted it four years ago while a Wyoming blizzard raged outside. It found shelter here, rich soil, constant care. I climb the ladder and pick a ripe one from a stalk and smell its rich scent. I perch on the tip-top of the ladder, just above the warning signs. The misting machines go off, hundreds of nozzles spray a fine mist through the gardens. The trees lose their shape in the fog. I expect a monkey’s call, the cry of an exotic bird. Tiny water droplets cling to the hairs of my arm. The cold winter wind whips the building and it groans like a living thing. I peel the banana carefully, the skin thin as paper that comes off in pieces. A rich scent greets me as I bite. Smooth as banana pudding going down. I sit high in the jungle mist, waiting for my break to end. I hope to eat another Gardens’ banana when they ripen again, just a few at a time. They are delicious, so sweet and so warm, something worth waiting for.