COOL, FRESH, JUICY, deliciously sweet. I was instantly addicted when a neighbor in Spain introduced me to my favorite dish in the world—the fruit of the prickly pear cactus.

After rolling the fruit carefully across the driveway and spraying it with water to completely remove the spines, we peeled the thick green skin away with a knife and the fruit dissolved in my mouth. It reminded me of the refreshing Mediterranean breezes that sighed inland on hot afternoons.

"¿Qué te parece?" he asked me. How do you like it?

"!Me encanta!" I replied. I love it!

The fruit was filled with small round seeds, and the flesh fell easily away from these. I’ve never forgotten the taste.

I saw the fruit again on a trip through Mexico last summer—ripe purple fruit atop tall fan-shaped cactus. It stood silhouetted against the distant sky, growing from a narrow rocky ridge that quickly turned to cliff and dropped dramatically into the green valley below.

Ben and I were flying along steep, twisty mountain roads at the time. We had already driven across over 150 miles of such switchbacks that day and had another 200 miles to go before we would reach the coast and smooth, straight highways again.

Heavy rain showers doused our car off and on the whole way through the mountains. Even with the wipers on high, I could sometimes make out no details of the road or surrounding lush vegetation. Only the gray of the road, the green of the plants, and the black of the midday sky.

By the time I realized just how good that fruit would have tasted and what I had missed out on, we had already reached the next tight curve. I downshifted to second to save the brakes, watching the road ahead for oncoming traffic that could appear at any second. I swore right then and there that I would stop at the next ripe cactus and pick its fruit.

I haven’t seen one since.

We passed many more prickly pears along our way to the coast, but all the fruits were still green. They would be hard and sour. I wish now that I’d have hit the brakes, turned around, and hiked out along that thin ridge. I wish I’d not have passed by in such a hurry. This moment still stands out as my one regret of my Mexico vacation.

Prickly pear fruit ranks in my mind and heart with many other things that you work for and then enjoy their satisfactions and rewards. Things that you dream about. Things that you remember with joy, long for with regret, or both simultaneously.

You know their taste to be delicious and wonderful, succulent and satisfying, but you sometimes remember them as bittersweet just the same.

Sometimes I think of the fruit when I think of dreams, goals, ambitions, and hopes, opportunities taken or opportunities that passed me by.

Sometimes I remember the refreshing taste alongside memories of specific places—a boulder alongside a frothy mountain stream, waves covering my ankles on a secluded beach, a shaded bench in the park, a quiet corner of the library, or the bedroom in my childhood home.

All these memories send waves of feelings coursing through me, soaking me with memories, drenching me with emotions, leaving me to stand there dripping, energized or drained.

Sometimes the fruit reminds me of someone equally refreshing. Someone like Amy. I remember the first time I really talked with her.

"You look restless," I told her. We had run a few miles together and sat, cooling down and stretching, on the cool cement curb near my home.

She looked up, surprised. "I thought I hid it better," she answered. But there was no hiding the flash of passion in her eyes, the hunger for a bigger slice of life, the desire to soak in even more beauty from the surrounding world.

That small taste of the energy of her inner world whet my appetite for another bite. I could never get enough.

We spent some time together over the following months, climbing small mountains to watch the sunset, running through town or up the canyon after dark, sometimes laying in the grass at night and sharing our thoughts while we watched the stars spin slowly through the summer sky.

Amy later moved, first to the next town, then home to an adjacent state, and finally to the other side of the country. Now I haven’t seen her in years.

From a distance, I saw someone who looked like her this past week and did a double take. I remembered the flavor she brought and how my little world tasted so sweet for a few short moments.