Orange Theory

Here’s the view - 

teta sitting in a plastic chair in the kitchen, floral

plastic table cloth backed with cotton – you

know the one, bowls of olives, raw green almond

hulls, janerik – sour green plums – next to a salt

dish. She places a plate on her lap, ready with a

paring knife. Sun casts through the kitchen

window. As if the world in her mystical charm

knows what’s about to happen, like this, every time. 

She cuts both ends of the rind in circular motion,

discarding the navel from which the orange

grows, then gently scores the leathery skin in

equal parts, tossing lightly in rotation, barely an

inch above her hand. 

The beauty of it all – the cutting, the scoring, the

delicate hands that peeled oranges for eight children

and a husband. Her right index finger digging behind

the rind, little wet particles micro jetting into the air,

dissipating into the dappled sun. Matriarchal love

softly exploding, then disappearing, bright citrus

melting on the tongue.