The Mystery of Pawpaws

By Yen Pham

This collection reflects on the quiet wonder of discovering pawpaws—an unassuming, hidden fruit that becomes a symbol of grace, patience, and shared joy. Through moments of gathering, laughter, and simple companionship, the poems reveal how small adventures in nature can deepen gratitude and awaken a sense of the sacred. Rooted in memory and faith, these pieces honor both the beauty of creation and the gentle ways God answers even the smallest prayers.

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The Mystery of Pawpaws

Pawpaws are a mystery by name—
and even more by the way they live.
They grow in silence, along shaded ravines,
untended, without tender care,
as if heaven alone watches over them.

Strangely, the birds do not feast,
nor do the squirrels claim them—
a secret fruit, hidden in plain sight.

Sr. Maria once pickled pawpaws
and came back with five mosquito bites.
I thanked her aloud for the fruit,
and quietly for her sacrifice.

The next time, we went together—
an adventure beneath a dim sky.
I could hardly see the fruit;
leaves and green skins blurred into one,
a perfect camouflage of creation.

But Sr. Maria—
she carried a determination stronger than doubt.
With a long fruit picker raised high,
she aimed with careful precision.
The tree was tall, the angle exacting,
and patience stretched long in the arms and neck.

Still, we endured.

And oh—was it worth it.
The first taste:
creamy, sweet, richly strange—
like a memory of the tropics
hidden in the woods.

“Banana, mango, pineapple… vanilla,”
she said.
A chorus of flavors in one quiet fruit.

A gift once known
by Native hands long before ours—
a fruit with a story older than memory.

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A Good Memory with Pawpaws

When I visited Terre Haute
from May to August,
pawpaws found me for the first time.

Jenni was full of energy—
joyful, eager, alive with the hunt.
I, on the other hand, was clueless,
learning by watching her shake the trees
until the fruit fell like small blessings.

One day, I shook the wrong tree—
and the sisters laughed gently.
The trees were tall,
and my neck could not search them all.

Later, someone said
there were large fruits we could not reach.
And because of pawpaws,
Sr. Anne brought us a picker—
a simple tool, a quiet miracle.

Even then,
Sr. Marie Theresa and I struggled together,
reaching, stretching, hoping.

Then came the day I was to return
to Oklahoma.

That morning,
a large pawpaw rested on the table before me—
a silent gift.
Later, I learned it was from Jenni.

I returned it to her, smiling—
for I had already received enough.

The day before, I had gone out alone
and whispered a prayer:
“Lord, grant me one pawpaw.”

I shook the tree—
and one fell.

Just one.

And it was enough.

I brought it back to my small room,
where its fragrance filled the air—
soft, sweet, mysterious.

That night,
I could not sleep.

I was surrounded
by the scent of wonder—
the quiet perfume
of a prayer answered.