The summer sun was already high when we walked into the gym, and the first thing we heard was Mia’s shout: “Coach Lila! Coach! Did you bring bananas?” Lila laughed, holding up a paper bag, and the kids swarmed around her like little bees. “Banana lovers are increasing daily,” she said, handing me a ripe yellow banana as the kids peeled theirs, sticky fingers and grins all around. I took a bite, the sweet flesh melting on my tongue, and watched her—her hair tied back with a purple ribbon, her white leotard dotted with a smudge of banana, her eyes bright as she joked with the kids. It was a small moment, but it felt like summer in a nutshell: warm, sweet, full of light.
After practice, Lila sat on the old wooden bench, wiping banana off her cheek, and I handed her a napkin. “Remember when you hated bananas?” I said, grinning. She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. “I didn’t hate them—I just thought they were ‘too messy for gymnastics,’” she said, quoting her younger self. It was true—when we first met, she’d refuse to eat bananas before practice, complaining about sticky fingers messing up her grips. But that changed last summer, when Mia had a low blood sugar scare during class, and the only snack we had was a bunch of bananas. Lila had fed Mia one, her hands gentle, and then taken a bite herself. “They’re not that bad,” she’d said, surprising both of us. Now, bananas were a staple—for the kids, for us, for the little moments that made our days brighter.
That weekend, we planned a “Banana Day” at the gym. The kids brought banana bread, banana smoothies, even a banana-shaped piñata filled with candy. Lila and I baked banana muffins using her grandma’s old recipe—“She added cinnamon, to make them feel like home,” she said—and set them out on a blue plate (matching the gym’s walls) next to a bowl of fresh bananas. The gym smelled like cinnamon and ripe fruit, and the kids laughed as they decorated their muffins with banana slices and sprinkles. “Look, Coach! Mine has a banana face!” Mia said, holding up a muffin with two banana slices for eyes and a chocolate chip smile. Lila knelt down, taking a photo. “We have to put this in our collage,” she said, nodding at the wall where our summer pose sketch hung.
Later, we sat on the bench, sharing a muffin, and watched the kids play. The sun streamed through the windows, turning the white lilacs on the shelf golden, and Lila leaned her head on my shoulder. “Grandma would’ve loved this,” she said, her voice soft. “She always said the best days are the messy ones—the ones with sticky fingers and laughter.” I kissed the top of her head, taking her hand. “She’s here,” I said, “in the muffins, in the kids’ smiles, in the way we love each other. Even in the bananas.” She laughed, squeezing my hand, and we sat there for a while, listening to the kids’ shouts and the hum of the summer breeze.
A few days later, Mr. Torres brought in a new addition to the gym: a small banana plant, potted in a blue pot, placed next to the old bench. “Saw it at the market,” he said, grinning. “Thought it fit—what with all the banana lovers around here.” Lila and I watered it together that night, and she traced her finger over a new leaf. “It’ll grow,” she said, “just like us.” I nodded, thinking of how far we’d come—from awkward first conversations about balance beams, to saving the bench, to Banana Days and summer poses. We’d grown, together, messy and sweet, just like the bananas we now loved.
On the last day of summer, we gathered the kids around the banana plant, which had already sprouted a second leaf. “Banana lovers are increasing daily,” Lila said, looking at the kids, then at me. “And so is our family.” We passed out bananas, and the kids took turns saying what they loved most about the summer—“The summer pose!” “The muffins!” “Coach Lila’s hugs!”—until Mia turned to us. “I love that you two are always together,” she said, her voice quiet. Lila’s eyes filled with tears, and I squeezed her hand. “We love that too,” I said.
That night, we sat on the park’s blue blanket, watching the sunset, and shared a banana split—vanilla ice cream, hot fudge, and a whole banana, split down the middle. “Remember when you thought bananas were messy?” I said, wiping a little fudge from her chin. She kissed me, sweet and sticky, and smiled. “Remember when you couldn’t keep your eyes off me during practice?” she said, teasing. I laughed, pulling her closer. “I still can’t,” I said. “And I never will.”
Love isn’t about being perfect. It’s about the messy moments—the sticky fingers, the banana smudges, the days that don’t go as planned. It’s about Lila, with her grandma’s recipe and her love for kids, and me, with my sketchbook and my love for all the little pieces of her. It’s about bananas, and summer poses, and the way we grow together, sweeter every day.
Because banana lovers are increasing daily—and so is our love. And that’s the sweetest part of all.
