Oranges: A Love Poem

The first time I walked with a girl, I was twelve, cold, and brilliant at nothing. Two oranges in my jacket— heavy as the future, round as the world I wanted to give her but couldn't afford. She picked a chocolate that cost more than what I had. I placed the orange on the counter— part fruit, part currency, part prayer— and the woman behind the register looked at me, looked at the girl, and said nothing. Some debts are paid in understanding. Outside, I peeled the remaining orange and handed her half. The juice ran down my wrist like something I couldn't name yet— not love, not exactly, but the shape of it: bright, sticky, impossible to hold without evidence. That was thirty years ago. I still can't peel an orange without standing on that street again— twelve, cold, holding something golden in each hand: fruit in one, her fingers in the other. Some people carry roses. I carry oranges. The color is more honest.