Summer Sweet Oranges, and Memories of Mama

By Mian Anais

As  a child I remember tearing flesh from orange slices,

juice dripping down my chin,

sticky sweetness clinging to my fingertips

sweet Arizona summers,

the orange-peel smile stretched wide across my teeth.

2020 was the year I said goodbye,

the year I spoke to GOD,

the year I prayed for a response I knew would never come:

a hand squeeze,

a slight grin,

a miracle too miraculous to exist.

that was the year some fought to keep shelves full of

toilet paper and peanut butter,

while others were ripped away too soon

too soon to plan,

too soon to say goodbye,

too soon to prepare our hearts.

2020, I bought no oranges.

I couldn’t bring myself to taste them,

the fruit bowl of my childhood home haunting me

sometimes filled,

most days empty.

in LA, the “orange man” still waits at intersections,

pitching fruit through rolled-down windows

before the light flashes green.

we share a smile, a nod,

but I never buy

the pit in my stomach too sour

to let sweetness in.

I flashback 

To Phoenix street corners,

Mama’s freckled grin,

her soft, wrinkled hand pressing a crisp twenty into  my palm,

She always let  me pay,

always let  me keep the change.

Arizona summers were always hot,

but perfect for us.

slurping oranges in the front yard,

staying outside until dinner,

drinking from the hose,

running to the soundtrack of cars, of bikes, of laughter

and Mama’s voice cutting through it all

stop slamming my door,

if you come in this house again, you’re staying inside.

today, I  bought oranges.

for the first time in two years.

I met the “orange man” with a grin

as wide as Mama’s,

a twenty-dollar bill

in exchange for a memory,

in exchange for her.

for a bag of oranges,

for that sticky sweetness

still lingering on my fingertips

By Mian Anais