Orange Season

I came home today to a platter of oranges.

Grandma loves oranges. I have vivid childhood memories of her slowly peeling them, taking her time to groom them as she would had she been brushing a baby's head. It's how I knew winter was here, back when I had no concept of seasons, or time.

I knew oranges meant winter before I knew I spoke two languages, or what it meant to look at a person and feel safe.

I remember looking at her, as she achingly peeled those oranges for what felt like a small eternity. She wasn't bothered by me watching her, she wasn't ignoring me either. Her presence contained me, her act was inseparable from its environment.

When she was done peeling them, she would make them into little "cat ears", as she called them.

She never faltered while peeling them to take a bite, or steal one of the little pieces to satiate her craving. She always took her time, and she always finished the process.

And then she would give them to me.

Even as a child, who is born selfish, I always tried not to take them. I would lovingly manipulate her into eating them by giving her an ultimatum that I wouldn't eat unless she did, or that I wasn't hungry or felt sick. I would always fail.

I never really liked oranges. They were a lame fruit.

And I ate an orange field growing up.

Today, I came home to find a platter of oranges.

I wasn't supposed to come home.

I was supposed to be with grandma, but I couldn't go.

She said she needed me. They said I was the only one who could help.

I ran through an orange field to get home, only to come home to a platter of oranges.

She wouldn't have done the same.

She would have peeled them too, for me.

Right now, grandma cannot peel oranges.

Or eat them.

I don't think she has for a while, back when she could, because we always forgot to get her some.

I always forgot to get her some.

I came home to a platter of oranges.

And winter is here.