Orange

There’s an orange tree where the palm tree used to be. Right as you walk into our courtyard framing the tall glass windows by the front door you remember the ones? The wrought iron gate still slams shut if you let it. What I mean to say is there’s no sneaking out unless you remember to muffle the clash or take the door on the opposite side of the house like we did last year. Mom told us to go ‘harvest’ the oranges she hadn’t already placed in her glass bowl at the center of the kitchen table and so we did. Only the ones that were begging for the release though. I can’t tell if they tasted sweeter because I could see their source from my spot at the counter. I kept picking at the residual skin I’d sprinkled and stacked against the marble I liked the smell it left behind. ‘Don’t just leave that there Stephanie.’ I’m not a guest here but I’m not not a guest here maybe you understand. I could almost taste the color orange this time. If you could taste a color I mean. It helps if you close your eyes and let some of the cold air sneak in from the yard. Just enough to mute the rest of your senses I mean. I peeled a few wedges off for dad still he spent some time on them, making sure there was no trace of the bitter edges before committing to the first bite. We’re different for that, for many other reasons. I’d much rather eat the unpleasant bits with the rest better to mix the sweet with the less appealing don’t you think? I swept his stack of discards into the trash along with the skin I’d left waiting. It’s less easy to forget I don’t live here anymore.