when i was six and summer was more heat that sunshine, cherry popsicle juice trickled down my fingers and a tangerine sat on the kitchen counter. i wanted to eat it. i diligently scrubbed the residue off my hands and grabbed the fruit with eagerness i haven't had since. my nails were stubs and my fingers were nothing more of a press against the thick peel. i wanted to eat it. my mom took the fruit from me and told me to sit at the table. i did not ask her. she peeled the orange for me.
three springs ago, when it was too wet to be cold and the sky seemed to be overcast for the presumable future, i sat at a boarding gate with my best friend, listening intently to the overhead PA, and prayed for the weather to subside just enough for our flight to not be delayed further or canceled, but i knew the chances were slim. we were miles away from home, and i was a little scared. the lobby had a fruit basket. my friend picked out an orange and peeled it. she unfurled the slices and handed them to me.
yesterday, when i was scared the future was nothing but impending doom, you told me i could rule the whole world. i cried a little, and you sat me down on your kitchen stool and hugged me tight. you let go of me only an hour or so later to get me water, but i hadn't seen the orange in your hands. you sat down while i drank, and you peeled me an orange.
i think it's like this: i love you, and you love me. we've said it in the passing, but sometimes you see it in my teeth when i smile and i see in in the crinkle of your eyes. sometimes i'll say sweet words and offer you time i didn't think i had, and other times, i'll buy you a coffee when i'm at the cafe without asking and i'll pack you an extra granola bar when you leave in the night for practice. sometimes, i don't have to ask, and you don't have to answer. if we sit here for any longer, and if you through your head back in laughter, i think i might just say 'i love you' for the rest of my life. it's true.
i'll peel your oranges.