On the Particular Beauty of Oranges

In California, there are always fresh oranges. 

They’re a most reliable fruit, plentiful and hearty, bright and sweet, glowing like little incarnations of the summer sun. Most days, I’ll come across an orange or two, at a fruit stand, or in a front yard, or in a complimentary fruit bowl. They’re unavoidable. So often, I’ll be standing with a hoard of strangers, maybe under the florescent lights of a supermarket, or maybe at a buffet lunch, and I am holding one of these precious things, moving my fingers over the subtle ridges of its rind. I wonder if the bystanders understand the intimacy of this moment, if they grasp the importance of this piece of produce. Can they guess how much it means or where it dwells in my heart knowledge? Do they know about the particular beauty of oranges?

In these instants, so many things come to mind.

There are the obvious memories: the fragrant trees outside of my childhood home, Orange Juliuses enjoyed while driving down the coast, afternoons at the farmer’s market.

Then there are those other memories, more rightly mine: orange oil in Egypt, my grandmother’s hand soap, blossoms tucked into my little cousins’ hair, my favorite honey, each imbued with a smack of citrus and something more personal. They bring smiles, and are shared with a few of those people I love most, maybe family, maybe old friends. 

And finally, there are the memories buried deep down, so exquisitely fragile and soaked in tears, utterly private recollections that can’t quite be captured, the smallest moments.

The way someone ate an orange, so carefully peeling the skin so as to keep it in one piece, chewing slowly, smiling, their hands slightly sticky afterwards, their hair and face smelling faintly tart, the pith under their fingernails. 

Or even the selfless kindness of oranges left out in the morning, the manifestation of a mother’s love: pulled out of the icebox at the most exact moment and placed in the light of the garden window, so the sun would warm the flesh just enough, and then I could wake up to a sweet smell and fresh fruit. So simple, and so poetic in its everyday tenderness.

Does the man in the grey suit standing next to me understand this, can he? Does he have his own memories? Or is he merely looking to satiate an appetite for something light and bright, to satisfy an unenlightened craving? Or was he actually hoping for a plum, or a green apple, and is merely settling for an orange? He’s probably not thinking about it at all, just grabbing at an orange because his grocery list tells him he needs some fruit, and because even if he doesn’t know about oranges’ beauty, he remembers their reliability, and knows that an orange is an orange is an orange.

Oh glorious orange, shining orb of joy, I will not forget your particular beauty. I will linger in the produce section, with tears in my eyes, and I will imagine your greatness, as it was, as it is, and as it will be. 

I will think back to the wonders you have brought me, and give thanks. I will remember the happinesses you have provided.

I will look at you now and proclaim your glory, your magnificence in this neon world, the moment of transcendence that you are now bestowing upon me.

And I will think ahead to future iterations of your glowing perfection: many more mornings of pretty oranges, shared with lovers and little ones, sticky fingers and citrus-y kisses. And later, maybe the sowing of your seeds in the backyard of a place called home, or the use of your zest in cookies made for children and grandchildren. And one day, orange blossoms placed in a favorite vase next to my bed, easing me into a long, dreamless sleep.

Oh, the particular beauty contained in a simple citrus fruit, perched on a stand in front of a sentimental girl and a man in a grey suit. Who could imagine the importance of this humble orange? Well, I suppose I could.