Oma Cecil

Oranges

I could smell oranges even when I wasn't there. I could see the globes of pungent fruit hanging from the thick branches of their trees. I would pluck only the most perfect leaves and string them together, making green belts, necklaces, bracelets and crowns. I would sometimes lie in the shade of the towering grove and read or even nap. I missed it so much that I would sometimes see the dusty dirt pathways that could be found between trees and pretend to stroll down them again, only to find that I had been wandering down a cracked cement sidewalk, or aimlessly roaming my nearly empty apartment. It was a serious case of homesickness.

But this is what I had wanted, right? To be on my own and feel the rush of the hustle and bustle of the city life us what I had dreamt of under those orange trees, but now all I could think of was those same orange trees and their scent of familiarity. I wanted to feel the warm patches of sunlight that the lush leaves had made, warm my skin. I wanted to smell the sour scent of the orange oil waft over me. I wanted to be able to reach up and pull an orange fresh from the tree. I wanted to rip the peel from the fruit and eat, tasting the flavor of home. I wanted to feel the juice run down my hands, drying out my skin.

I sprinted to the nearest fruit stand and bought a bag of oranges. Not as fresh as home, but still something that made me smile.