"Oranges at My Grandfather's" by Donato Martinez
Oranges at My Grandfather’s
I used to watch my grandfather pull out a pocketknife from his pocket.
He’d find an orange
and slice it into perfect wedges, right on the palm of his hand,
It was a ritual like making magic out of nothing.
These were our summers when we were out of school.
It was our escape,
our vacation — just walk up the street, and I would be at his home.
My cousins and I would salivate and drool over the oranges.
The sticky and juicy mess would run down from our fingertips to our elbows,
and we wiped our hands on our shirts
only to stain them with permanent smudges.
And ask him for more.
It was these summers
that reminded us of our innocence
as we bravely escaped and got lost in the jungle of gardens and plants and vegetables.
We created backyard adventures as we climbed apricot trees.
We discovered the mystery and nudity of women in old Playboy magazines.
Some of us learned about the bitter taste of alcohol
and the stale stench of cigarettes.
Like scavengers we quickly ran to our homes,
out of breath,
and, for a night, we forgot about our sadness
and hid the grief of our own homes,
the scars of our past
the sins of our fathers
of fights and hunger and poverty and screams
and promised not to share the dark family secrets that destroy families.
One day things will get better. I promise you.
We nodded in agreement.
And we will remember:
How my grandfather wound an orange so perfectly
and how quickly we devoured the sweet flesh.
Photo Credit: Staff