The Mystical Orange

When days seemingly feel sulky and dull, I take an orange and indulge. For the orange is precisely like the setting sun, just before night, beaming with the warm glow of a reddish-yellow light. If you reached out to touch it, you could, with the tips of your finger, trace the soft little bumps on its outer shell. And if cupped in your palm, it would roll gently and caress your skin with a certain moistness only citrine fruits could provide. Above the round fruit is a dent from which the stem has been removed; let the tip of your thumb burrow down there, and before it mauls the soft pulp within, use your index finger to pin the skin. And round and round, pull it out. As you do, you hear the sound of roots and vines being torn from a distant forest, as if trees are being parted, uprooted. Round and round until all that is left is a soft orange ball, clearly divided in portions, but ever clouded by veins of white fiber.

The peeled off part has two sides. On one side, the familiar soft bumpy skin, and the interior, is a pale resemblance of the outer shell. Already, your body could do no more than feel enticed by its gloriously youthful smell. You gently take a portion from it, careful not to puncture the precious bag of juice. And as you welcome it into your mouth, your tongue will bear witness to its softness. You may bite it or crush it with your tongue, and you would behold the merry flavors of nature’s sweet delights, gushing in all corners of your known mouth. As the sweetness slides, you reminisce warm summer days and pleasant memories of life. And back in your mouth, these pulps and membranes of clear skin dance joyously with your tongue.

Eating orange reminds me of how sweet life can be.