dear orange tree,
you and i nearly the same age. i remember grampa and dad planting you. i can’t say i remember when. it was definitely before i started kindergarden. i remember because we had to uproot the strawberries that i so loved just so you can be part of our family.
i don’t go back there to see you. in passing, i’ll take a glimpse of you, continue my way, but never stay long enough to see that you have grown taller than the house. or that fallen fruit from your limbs has fed another squirrel.
my dog simon used to grab an orange from your low-hanging branches and play catch with himself. he loved citrus from there on out. god, i miss him right now.
the smell of the orange blossoms in spring are the most comforting. you often try to call my name by speaking to my nose with the scent of your flowers wafting in an open window, into the kitchen.
thank you for that.
well, i do notice you now, as i am grateful for my basket of ripe oranges, freshly juiced, and stored. i never take care of you. i don’t water your soil or sprayed pesticides on you (which is probably a good thing) nor harvest you. but yet you continue, after all these years, bear fruit, always offering it to me, even though i don’t come around.
but you always offer…
i should take a lesson from you.
love,
alfie
